Personal Demons
by Ani101
Summary: Sam thinks Dean has a supernatural stalker. Dean just thinks Sam's crazy...both of them are slightly right. Set in early season 1 before Bloody Mary, Sam trying to deal with Jess's death. Rated T for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, here's my new story! It's set in early season 1, before Bloody Mary, while Sam is still dealing with Jess's death, though it also is connected to Sam's whole 'anger at everything' thing in season 5...though there are no spoilers, it's just **_**there**_** that he's angry the whole time, I always liked that idea. I just really love this time frame and really wanted to write something set here.**

**I've had the first three chapters lazing around on my computer for weeks now and I finally decided to post this…so now I have most of it written already so I should be able to post at least a couple of times a week, it'll be about ten chapters I think altogether….and there will be lots of hurt Sam later on…**

**I am not making a profit from this story and I don't own anything you recognise from Supernatural-though I'm working on it!**

**Hope you enjoy...**

**Personal Demons**

Chapter 1:

Sam Winchester was staring blankly out of the motel room window when the Impala pulled up in the parking lot. He registered this without much interest, lost in thought-Dean was back again, no doubt loaded down with burgers and beer. And then he saw it-the flickering, ghostly figure standing staring directly at the car, indistinct from this distance but definitely there. Sam yelled and jumped to his feet, already casting around for the salt-and then Dean opened the car door and got out, and the apparition vanished, as if it had never been there.

Sam blinked, wondering what this could mean. Dean looked up at the window, saw him standing there and waved. Sam shot back a weak smile that of course his brother could not see from this distance. He had just seen a ghost standing staring at Dean like its next victim-there was no way he could let this go.

Dean came shouldering into the motel room a few seconds later, holding a large, greasy bag in one hand and the keys in the other. He dumped the bag on the table and sank down in a chair with a sigh, rubbing his hands. "What?" he said in response to Sam's look. "It's cold out there."

"You didn't see it?"

Dean looked up, surprised. "See what?"

"There was some kind of spirit watching you out there, Dean. I saw it."

Dean looked confused. "What do you mean, watching me?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Am I not speaking English? It was looking at you, like it wanted to kill you. And when you got out of the car it disappeared."

Dean looked at him oddly. "Uh-Sam-where exactly did you see this thing?"

Sam went to the window and pointed. "Right beside the Impala."

Dean was now looking rather sceptical. "And…if it was so close, why didn't I see it?"

"Well-" Sam stopped. "I don't know. But..."

"Okay, so what kind of spirit was it? What did it look like?"

"I don't really know, it was too far away."

Dean groaned. "Sam, did you really see this thing? Could it have been a trick of the light or something? 'Cause I saw _nothing_."

"Dean, I know what I saw! It could be waiting for you! You could be in danger!"

"Dude. How much sleep did you get last night?"

"Enough," Sam lied. He had not closed his eyes but he knew what he was seeing. "Dammit-"

"Well, put a salt line around the room then if you're so worried. But nothing is going to happen."

Sam turned away, grabbed the salt shaker and began to do just that, sprinkling a line of salt all around the room-the door and windows had already been done on their arrival, as usual. Scowling, as he knew that Dean was looking at him with that irritating big brother's indulgent smile, he drew the line right around his brother's bed.

"You're really paranoid, y'know," Dean told him, yanking the cap off a bottle of beer. Sam ignored this.

…...

_Jessica was staring at him fixedly and brokenly, her beautiful eyes filled with pain and hatred. She advanced across the motel room, her nightgown stained red with a great slice of blood. She drew nearer, nearer, and Sam pressed himself against the wall, terrified. _

_ "Jess...no..."_

_ "Why did you let this happen to me?" she breathed, her voice bubbling with the blood in her mouth that spilled over her lips. "Why weren't you there to save me?"_

_ "Jess, please...I'm sorry..."_

_ "You know how much it hurts when someone cuts your stomach open, Sam?" She was so close he could have reached out and touched her, and the bitterness in her eyes was tearing him apart inside. "It hurts like hell. I was still alive when he pinned me on the ceiling, Sam. I was alive and I was hurting..."_

_ "Jess," Sam whispered. "Please..."_

_ "I was waiting for you. I screamed your name, Sam. But you didn't come. You'd been dreaming about it for weeks but you left me there to die. You abandoned me, Sam!" And she leaned forwards and placed her lips on his and he could taste the blood in her mouth, he was choking on Jessica's blood and struggling but it was like his limbs were frozen, he could not breathe, could not run..._

"HEY Sammy wake up!"

"No!" he yelled, struggling wildly as someone grabbed his shoulders. "No-no-"

"Sammy, it's me! _Sam_!"

"Jess!" he screamed. His eyes were screwed shut, he could still taste the blood. Then he was pinned down, someone forcing him to be still, a voice he recognised sounding in his ears.

"Sam for God's sake wake up! You're safe, it's okay..."

His eyes snapped open, wild and unseeing-then focused on his brother's face peering in at him, worry reflected in his green eyes, and he sagged back with a gasp.

"Dean?" he croaked. Dean sat back with an expression of relief.

"Yeah, it's me, little bro," he replied. "You were having one hell of a nightmare."

"A nightmare?" He sat up, shoving his chestnut bangs out of his eyes. The shadows loomed in but he could see the motel room, devoid of any Jessica alive or dead, just him and Dean and a lot of weapons on the table. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Just a dream, he thought. Just another nightmare.

When was it going to stop?

Dean's eyes were still fixed on his face. "Jessica, right?" he said. "Sammy, we really need to talk about this now."

"There's nothing to talk about," Sam returned. "It's just a nightmare."

A nightmare. But it's true what she said-it _was_ my fault. I left her there and I should've known...oh hell Jess, I'm so sorry...

Dean sat back, looking slightly pacified. "Sam-"

"I gotta get some sleep," Sam said, to avoid the subject. "So should you. We got a hunt for tomorrow..."

Dean looked surprised. "A hunt? We do?"

"Yeah," Sam said determinedly. "We're gonna hunt the spirit that was following you."

Instantly Dean looked angry. "Dammit Sammy-"

"It's _Sam_."

"There is no spirit! You just imagined it or something, you hear me? There was nothing there!"

Sam decided that it really wasn't worth having this argument right now, and lay down, closing his eyes, though he had no intention of going back to sleep and letting the nightmares take him again. "'Night, Dean," he said, and heard the creak of bedsprings as his brother returned to his own, salt-surrounded bed. Sam waited a few minutes, then got up, went over to the table and opened Dean's laptop. So maybe it wasn't a real hunt yet-it was still good to get his bearings. And researching would stop him falling asleep again.

**So what do you think? Is anyone interested in finding out****what happens? Please let me know!**


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the encouraging response I received for this story! Here's the next chapter…warning-liberties taken with SPN monster, there is an explanation at the end.

Chapter 2:

Dean groaned as he rolled over in bed, the weak sunlight stinging his eyes. The beginning of another day...then, as his vision slowly sharpened, he noticed Sam's long, lanky figure slumped across the table. He frowned and prised himself from the bed, staggered to his feet and went over to his brother. Sam appeared to be asleep on top of the laptop, his overlong chestnut hair spilling over his face. He looked vulnerable-unhappy.

"Sammy, c'mon. Wake up..."

Sam started, blinked, then jerked upright, looking surprised.

"Where...where am I...Dean?"

Dean smiled at the kid's bewilderment. "You want to tell me how you fell asleep on my computer, geek boy?"

Sam glanced at the dark screen and frowned, running a hand through his hair. "Uh..." Then his hazel eyes brightened and he looked visibly more alert. "I was checking out anything that could lead to a haunting in the area. Because..."

"Oh, you're unbelievable." Dean turned away and, yawning, made his way over to the bathroom.

By the time he emerged Sam had left the computer again and gone over to his bed. He seemed to have fallen asleep on it, too, and judging by the awkward position he had got himself into, he had not meant to do so. Dean shook his head, decided not to wake his little brother when he was just getting some peaceful, much-needed rest, and headed out in search of breakfast.

Sam was jolted from a dream in which Jessica was again pinned to the ceiling, burning and bleeding, to the sound of someone hammering at the door. He forced himself to his feet, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, wondering how he could have become so tired that he simply fell asleep in odd places like this, and went over to peer through the spyhole. Dean was standing on the other side, looking slightly annoyed.

"I forgot my key," he called through the wood. "Open up, Sammy."

Sam flung the door wide. "It's Sam," he reminded him, then gasped. The ghost he had seen the day before was standing directly behind Dean, looking over his shoulder. Seeing the direction of his gaze, Dean turned, but as his gaze turned towards the spirit it disappeared, leaving Dean staring into thin air. He turned back to Sam, an expression of slight concern in his eyes.

"Uh-will you get violent if I ask you what you were staring at?"

Sam reached out, grabbed his older brother's arm and dragged him inside the protection of the salt line, slamming the door behind them. Dean was looking a little angry now, and Sam faced him with arms folded, determined.

"You must have seen it that time," he said. "It was the same spirit, I know it was."

Dean spread his hands. "Sam," he said. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I swear to you that there was nothing there."

Sam stared, amazed. "But it was right there, Dean! It's stalking you or something! It's this old guy in a suit, only he's got these weird eyes, I swear they even looked red for a second. You ever met someone like that? Maybe it's someone you beat at poker or something..."

"Sam!" Dean stormed past him, grabbing his bag. "We're leaving. You're imagining things, you hear me? Just forget it!"

"But he was there, Dean, I saw him!"

"Listen to me, dude. I know you're new back on the job. Can you tell me if you're maybe just, I dunno, projecting all that crap in your freaky head onto the hunting thing and making you see things? Because there was nothing there, Sammy!"

…...

The brothers drove in brooding silence from then on. They were headed, as far as they knew, away. Dean just wanted to get away from whatever stupid hallucinations his brother was having-Sam was banking on the idea that this spirit would not be able to follow Dean very far. But he was confused-why could Dean not see it? Why, for some reason, was the thing allowing only Sam to see it? It made no sense.

Unless it really didn't care about anything except getting to Dean...Sam shuddered, beginning to wish he had never let his older brother come out from behind the salt line in their room. Why would a spirit set its sights on his brother? What was the _point_?

Actually, Sam realised, there were many reasons why someone could bear a grudge against Dean Winchester, alive or dead.

"Hey," he said, not looking up. "Hey, Dean, where're we going anyway?"

Dean did not take his eyes off the road. "I got us a job."

Sam's head jerked up. "What? How the hell-"

"Some, uh, problems in some village a few miles from here."

Sam shot him an incredulous look. "You just made that up," he accused. "What the hell is wrong with you anyway? Why won't you listen to me?"

"I am listening," Dean replied, still not looking at him. "And I think there's a thing somewhere in the woods outside Cayford, Maine, which is where we're headed." He turned on the cassette player. "And I didn't make it up, I heard talk in the diner and I was going to tell you when you turned all crazy ghost-whisperer on me."

Sam wanted to bang his head off the window. "Dean-"

"So," Dean shouted over the pounding music. "Some drunk saw something dig up a grave. Then there's a bunch of disappearances in the village."

"What does that mean?" Sam said, deciding to humour his brother. "'A bunch of nasty killings?'"

"Means that the past week since this dude saw the thing rise, there's been three people going missing, plus a lot of animals. They only found one body, and apparently it was kinda _dissolved_. Plus some stories about a rogue coyote or something in the forest." He shrugged. "Worth checking out."

"Got any theories?"

"Well, I'd say a zombie of some kind, but I don't know for sure."

Sam sighed. "Well-fine. But we need to talk about this ghost-"

Dean turned up the volume. "Sorry, can't hear ya there Sammy," he explained absently, and hit the accelerator.

…...

"Dean!"

Dean, who had been leaning against the Impala swigging beer from the bottle, whipped round to see Sam's lanky figure come running across the road towards him, narrowly avoiding being run over by a bus.

"What is it?" he called. "You found a spider in the toilet again Sammy? 'Cause I'm not getting it out for ya-"

"Don't call me Sammy," Sam said, coming to a halt before him. "Jerk. I found something, while you were-what were you doing again?"

Dean grinned. "Researching. The manager of the morgue has a _very_ hot assistant." He wagged his eyebrows.

"You made out with someone in a morgue?" Sam shook his head. "That's sick even for you, you're such a necrophiliac."

Dean frowned. "I'm a what?"

"Never mind. So you saw the body?"

Dean grimaced. "What was left of it."

Sam looked a little confused. "What, something had eaten it?"

Dean laughed shortly. "I love how you're so matter of fact about that, Sammy. No. Dissolved, like I said. No blood, it was more like some kind of acid had burned part of it up."

Sam nodded. "Well, that fits."

"No it doesn't!"

"Not with the zombie thing, no. But check this out-" He pulled a folded newspaper from his jacket and held it up. "Someone smashed up the church door last night."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Now it's all coming clear," he said sarcastically.

"Shut up. I checked out the church and I found this." He handed his brother a small bottle filled with a kind of grey dust. Dean uncapped it and sniffed, then scowled.

"Oh, great. Corpse powder." He shoved the bottle at Sam. "Skinwalker?"

"Looks like it. Defacing the church, the people going missing...and the powder dissolving the body. It does that. Remember we saw that before somewhere, years ago?"

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets. "Great. So we look for its lair."

"These things only come out at night," Sam said. "In the day they hide somewhere dark, warm and, uh, bad smelling."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "That last in the lore?"

"Not exactly," Sam returned defensively. "But it's still true. They like dead bodies. Kinda like you."

"That would explain the graves being dug up," Dean mused. "They make that powder from bodies, don't they. " He straightened up. "So we find some place in the forest dark and stinky, and we pack the sucker fulla silver."

"Let's go now, then," Sam said. "We don't want to fight it by night, and there's no time to lose. It'll be moving on soon, they never stay in one place long." He opened the Impala door and slid inside. Dean followed, more relieved than he cared to show that Sam had apparently stopped seeing that ghost. He could not help but worry about the kid; he was new back in hunting, and though he was good enough he was still a hell of a trouble magnet, always had been. And now, with his trauma over Jessica's death...It was Dean's job to take care of him, always had been and always would.

Still, they had hunted skinwalkers a couple of times before. Not without Dad, sure, but it was old ground in the way that demons, for example, were not. Dean still shuddered to remember that traumatic exorcism a few weeks ago-the one they had performed _on a plane_. Still, at least he had a ready weapon for whenever Sam joked about his fear of flying now-_clowns_ was a much funnier phobia. He had only taken the kid to a fair once, when Sam had been about six years old, and when one of the clowns had boomed its hello and tried to hold his hand for a photo he had screamed so loudly you'd have thought he was being molested and not stopped running till Dean managed to tackle him in a field outside the fair.

It was good to be back with Sam. Dean would never admit it, and he knew it could not last forever, that they both had their issues...but he had missed his little brother while he was at Stanford. He was pretty sure that their father had too.

**Okay-the skinwalker. When I wrote this part, quite a while ago, I realised that we'd never seen the boys hunting a skinwalker or heard much of anything about them...just thought it might be interesting. There wasn't much information about them anywhere so I made a bit of it up...but this was before the episode All Dogs Go To Heaven. I saw that, thought damn and decided not to bother changing it...that's all the excuse I have I'm afraid!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well here it is finally, and I am so sorry about the wait while I messed around with other random stuff! **

Chapter 3:

"Well, I think we found the sucker's lair," Dean muttered grimly. It was twilight, and he was crouched in the undergrowth behind a low rise, Sam at his side. Directly ahead of them they could see a shallow, twisting cave, and scattered around the outside were a number of bodies, all in various stages of decomposition, right down to a few dusty bones. Many seemed, like the body in the morgue, partially dissolved by corpse dust.

"And you're right for once, Sammy," Dean added. "It smells like _hell_."

"Hey," Sam whispered suddenly. "Dean-it's the corpse powder that's their weapon, right? But they're strong like wendigoes too, aren't they?" He scowled at Dean's sharp glance. "What? Dean, I was like ten years old last time we hunted one of these. I'm just _checking_."

"Well, whaddaya know. There's something college boy doesn't know," Dean quipped. Sam turned away.

"Yes, they're damn strong, Sammy," Dean said. "C'mon. Follow me and when we see it just keep shooting."

Sam shook his head but rose to his feet and followed his older brother towards the cave. Dean pressed himself against the outside wall of the cave, pistol ready-loaded with silver bullets in his hand, and peered cautiously round the corner. The cave was not large but it was dark, so shadowy the brothers could only see a couple of metres in. Sam flicked on his flashlight and shone it past Dean into the cave-there appeared to be nothing there. Dean frowned and stepped forwards in the light of Sam's flashlight, but his suspicions were correct-the cave was empty of life. Filled with bits of chewed up flesh and bones, and smelling like a hundred-year-old slaughterhouse, but devoid of any skinwalker.

"Don't these things walk at night anyway? Guess it is getting dark," Dean muttered, turning back to Sam. "Okay, so it's-" Then he stopped. Sam was staring at him with an expression of horror-or rather, just behind him. He whirled, expecting to see the skinwalker loom out of the shadows-but there was nothing.

Sam lifted his pistol, aiming it apparently at Dean, who raised his hands in faint alarm. "Uh-Sammy?"

"Get down," Sam muttered.

"Sam-"

"Dean, it's the spirit!"

In that moment, Dean felt nothing but rage. "Dammit Sam, there is no spirit! Are you crazy or something?"

"I'm not crazy-" He reached out and grabbed Dean's arm, dragging him away and keeping his pistol trained on the empty space he claimed to see a ghost in. Dean glanced from the place to his little brother's intent, determined face in the shadows, and for once he was at a loss for words.

And then a wild roar startled him from his confusion, as the creature loomed up before them. It was maybe seven feet tall, and clothed only in what looked like an enormous coyote skin. Its narrow eyes burned red but apart from that it appeared to have no features at all. It lumbered forwards and Sam fired wildly-missed. Angered, the enormous skinwalker flung a punch at the youth that was so powerful it knocked him flying across the glade-and it turned its attention to Dean.

He was ready for it. "Bite this," he snarled, and emptied an entire round of silver bullets into its chest. It howled and stumbled backwards, collapsing to the ground and beginning to disintegrate, but Dean was not interested in staying for the show. His focus was on the unmoving body of his younger brother across the glade, lying at the bole of the tree he had hit. He ran across and fell to his knees beside Sam, calling the kid's name.

"Hey. Hey, Sammy, c'mon, I know you can hear me..." He gently rolled his brother over onto his back and grimaced at the damage. A bloody gash was opened along the side of Sam's head, leaking red fluid into his floppy chestnut hair, and the skinwalker's punch seemed to have been harder than he had thought, because through the ripped fabric of Sam's shirt he could see livid bruising and tear marks. The youth's face was white and bruised, and he was unresponsive.

"Sam, Sammy..." He shook him gently and was rewarded with a faint moan as the kid stirred. "That's it, you can do it, you gotta wake up now..."

Sam's eyelids flickered. "Uhh...Dean? Where-" His eyes slid half open and his face tightened with pain. "Oh hell-"

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Dean reassured him. "It's dead, you're gonna be okay. Might have a concussion, though...can you stand?"

Sam tried to lever himself into a sitting position but he was clearly in too much pain and Dean felt his heart sear as the youth fell back with a quick gasp, and he got in behind and put an arm around his shoulders, helping him up. Sam's head lolled back against his older brother's neck and Dean knew that he was losing consciousness again. "No, Sammy, you gotta stay awake. I'm getting you outa here." He gripped his little brother's shoulders tighter and with an effort dragged him to his feet. Sam swayed and wavered, almost falling, and Dean caught him and held him steady. "Let's just get back to the car, okay? Stay with me here, Sammy..."

"Don't..." Sam's voice was harsh with pain and barely audible. "Don't...call me...Sammy..."

Dean could not help but smile. "I won't if you stay awake till we get to the car. Deal?"

"'Kay," Sam mumbled, trying to make his knees lock. Dean held him tight and concentrated on walking as carefully as he could, to avoid hurting Sam any more than was absolutely necessary. It seemed to take forever, but eventually the Impala was looming out of the surrounding forest and Dean felt that he had never been so glad to see it in his life. He yanked the back door open and carefully lowered the semiconscious Sam onto the seat. "Hang in there, kiddo," he told him. "I'm gonna stop the bleeding and get you to hospital..."

"No-" Sam said painfully. "I'm...okay, don't need...hospital...need to sleep..." He shifted on the back seat and Dean saw him pass out almost before it happened, and caught him before he fell, laying him down full length along the backseat. He grabbed a spare shirt and pressed it against his little brother's chest, holding it firmly to stop the bleeding, and after a few minutes realised that the best thing he could do was get Sam somewhere he could rest. Unwilling to leave him though he was, he closed the door gently and moved to the driver's seat. If Sam didn't want to go to hospital then Dean wasn't going to force him, but they were definitely getting another motel room, and if Sam hadn't woken up by then or seemed to be getting any worse then nothing in the world could stop Dean getting some professional help. Still, they'd dealt with worse before.

What really worried him was the fact that Sam really was seeing things that weren't there. He could only think of one way to explain it, and he really didn't want to. Sam couldn't be crazy. He just couldn't.

Dean was just pulling into the motel parking lot when he heard Sam's uncertain voice behind him. "Hey...Dean...where are we?"

"Home. Sort of," Dean replied, easing the Impala into a free space. "How're you feeling?"

"I'm...okay," Sam whispered. "Dizzy."

"You still don't think you need a hospital? I'm asking you seriously here, Sam."

"I'll be okay," Sam said, struggling into a sitting position. Dean caught his surprised expression as his blurred vision adapted to the change of position.

"Well, hang on till we get inside, it'll look suspicious if you collapse across the floor in the lobby. Okay?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed softly. "Dean, you didn't see...the spirit?"

Dean cut the engine and opened the door. "C'mon Sam, time to go."

…...

Somehow they made it to their room, a small dingy new one with two rickety beds. Dean was half-carrying Sam most of the way, and as soon as they made it inside Sam just collapsed on one of the beds, moaning softly and involuntarily in pain. Dean's face tightened-he hated seeing his little brother in this kind of state. Time to deal with the wounds, anyway.

"Hey, Sammy, c'mon look at me."

Sam's face turned up to his, the beautiful hazel eyes filled with pain. Dean sat down on the side of his bed with the first aid box and gently levered Sam into a sitting position.

"You gonna take your shirt off or shall I cut it?"

In answer, Sam just fumbled the ripped material away from the wounds, and in that area it just came apart in his fingers. He guessed, rightly, that it would hurt too much to take it off and he was too cold-maybe from blood loss-to want it gone completely. Dean accepted his action without a word and handed him the whisky bottle. Sam gripped it in a slightly shaking hand and took a swig, gasping at the bitter taste.

"Go for it," he whispered.

Dean really did not like stitching Sam up, but the alternative was to leave him bleeding and he had no choice. Twenty painful minutes later he was done, his little brother now lying across the bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Now he just had to take a look at the head injury...he bent over Sam, flicking on his flashlight. Sam moaned and shrank back from the light.

"You gotta open your eyes for me, kiddo," Dean chided him softly. "Then you can go to sleep, I promise."

Sam reluctantly opened his eyes and allowed Dean to inspect his pupils. Dean noted with some apprehension that they were slightly different sizes, which added to his dizziness and exhaustion meant a concussion, but it wasn't as if Sam had never had one before. He turned off the flashlight and Sam immediately closed his eyes again. Dean shook his head.

"You go right on to sleep," he said. He was going to have to wake his brother in the night, sure, to make sure he wasn't falling into a coma, but he was pretty sure that Sam would be all right this time. Sam complied, curling around the wounds to his chest and passing out again almost instantly. Dean pulled off his little brother's boots and tossed them aside, then pulled up the blankets around Sam to keep him warm. He was way too tall for the motel bed, had been for some time. It was hard to believe that he had once been so extremely small for his age, before the growth spurt at age sixteen when Dean had suddenly found himself, annoyingly, shorter than his kid brother. Dean watched him for a few moments, making sure that he was all right; Sam's unruly hair fell into his eyes and Dean brushed it away absent-mindedly. There were no pain lines on his face and his injuries had stopped bleeding. For once maybe the kid had been lucky.

_"Why, Sam?" Jessica's voice demanded. "Why? How could you let this happen to me? Why haven't you found my killer yet, Sam? Don't you care?"_

_ "Jess..." She was reaching out to him and he was pinned to the bed, he could not move. "Jess, I'm trying, I swear I'm trying..."_

_ "Don't you care?"_

"Sam. Wake up."

Someone was shaking him. Jessica dissipated like smoke. He saw darkness, felt pain rushing back in. He gasped and bolted upright, almost headbutting Dean on the nose, then instantly doubled over, hissing as the waves of agony flared up and down in his chest and spiked through his head. He felt Dean's arms grab him, steadying him as he swayed, eyes clenched tight shut.

"Hey, easy now little brother, easy. Just relax."

"Ah-" Sam managed to look up into Dean's concerned green gaze. "S'okay," he gasped. "Why...why'd you wake me..."

"You got a bad concussion, remember?" Dean reminded him. "It's what you're supposed to do."

Maybe it was a good thing that his older brother had woken him at that moment. Sam tried to smile reassuringly, then suddenly he saw it-again, the flickering image of the man just behind Dean, one hand reached out towards his brother. He cried out and shoved Dean away-the spirit shot him a twisted smirk.

"Soon..." it breathed, and then vanished.

"Sam. Sammy!" Dean gripped his face in both hands, forcing him to look at him. "Sammy, we gotta do something about this!"

Sam realised that he was shaking. "Dean, it spoke. It said 'soon', like it's gonna get you soon! You gotta listen to me, I think you're in danger!"

"No, Sam," Dean said firmly. "I am not. You have to understand me. What you are seeing is not real, you hear? I don't know what it is. Maybe it's some kind of trauma from what happened to Jess?"

"No," Sam insisted. "No, it's real! I don't understand how you can't see the thing!"

"Sam if you don't stop this then so help me I will get you checked out, you hear?"

Sam stilled, shocked. "_What_? You think I'm crazy?"

Dean was pale and nervous looking. "I don't know what to think. I just know that something's wrong here, Sammy."

"I'm not crazy," Sam said, very quietly. "I am trying to save your life."

Dean turned away. "Get some sleep, Sam," he muttered. "We'll talk about this in the morning."

**Reviews are inspiration!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry it's taken me so long…I seem to be saying this every time I update. What can I say, life has been crazy!**

**I own nothing…sad face…**

Chapter 4:

_"This is your fault, Sam," Jessica hissed from the ceiling. Paralysed with horror on the bed below, Sam could only stare as her blood dripped into his face. "You knew what was coming. You dreamed it! How could you let this happen to me?"_

_"I didn't mean this," Sam whispered desperately. "Jessica...please..."_

_Suddenly it was not blood but water, and he realised that she was weeping. The hatred on her beautiful face was gone, replaced with grief-she had always been so lively and so cheerful; it was one of the things he had loved most about her, that beautiful smile that had always made him feel like the world was all right. He had rarely seen her cry before._

_"No, Jess, don't cry, I'm sorry..."_

_"Sam," she murmured through her tears. "Sam, I'm burning. It hurts, Sam. Please...I didn't want to die, I had my whole life ahead of me, I loved you...Sam...how could you let this happen to me?" And her grief was worse than her rage, because Sam knew so well that she was right, that this was his fault and he had as good as murdered her..._

_"Don't cry," he begged. "Please, Jess, I'm gonna find your killer, I swear...I'll find it...whatever it was...I swear!"_

Sam woke with a headache to beat all headaches to see the weak winter sunlight streaming onto the ceiling, and lay motionless, trying to get a hold on the pain that was also slicing through the left side of his chest. He took a deep breath-and the memories of the previous night slammed back into him. The skinwalker. Dreaming about Jess. The spirit that for whatever reason was after Dean. And...most painful of all...Dean telling him he was crazy. _So help me I will get you checked out..._he had really said that.

So I'll face it, Sam thought determinedly. I will face this. If Dean can't see the thing then I'll just have to take care of it before it kills him.

With this thought in mind Sam gritted his teeth and pried himself from the bed. Agony split through his side and he hissed in pain, but though his head hurt he was no longer experiencing any difficulty with his vision or concentration. His concussion was evidently getting better. He glanced around for his brother, brushing his shaggy bangs out of his face.

Dean was across the room seated at the little table, the laptop open in front of him. He looked up at that moment and a mixture of apprehension and relief flashed across his face as he saw Sam awake.

"Welcome back," he quipped. "How're you feeling?"

"Pretty good, actually," Sam replied, trying to sound as sane as possible. "Guess that's thanks to you?" He pushed the covers back and swung his legs off the bed. He felt shaky and he was in some pain, but he was determined to prove to Dean that he was in perfect health. Jess, he thought. Hell, Jess...I'm sorry...

"Your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman," Dean deadpanned. "You still sure you don't need a hospital?"

Sam frowned at the idea. "I'm very sure."

Dean flipped the laptop closed and stared Sam directly in the eyes. "Listen, Sammy, we need to talk."

Sam stood up shakily, still in T-shirt and pyjama pants, and came unsteadily across the room to take the chair opposite his brother. Dean was watching him like a hawk, tense as if just about to leap up and help him, but Sam made it and stared him right back.

"We don't need to talk about this," he said determinedly. "I am not crazy. I promise you, Dean, there is something after you and you need to believe me and protect yourself. Okay?"

Dean slammed his fist against the table. "No it's not okay! Sam, I know you're under a lot of stress at the moment and I know you're not sleeping enough, and I just want you to consider the possibility that it might just have got to be a little too much. Okay?"

Sam scowled and opened his mouth as if to make a sharp retort, then suddenly nodded. "How about this, then," he said slowly. "I try and, uh, analyse myself, and think about what you said-in exchange for you taking precautions against some violent spirit stalking you. That's all. Deal?"

Dean looked at Sam closely and realised that they were both feeling the same thing-that making one concession to the other was a small enough price to pay in exchange for the other taking care of themselves the way they thought necessary. He could have laughed.

"Deal," he agreed. "So, you ready to get outa here today or d'you want to rest some more? 'Cause that skinwalker really gave you hell."

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm okay. I just think we should keep looking for Dad..."

Dean shot his brother a look, but Sam was looking away, his floppy chestnut hair hiding his eyes. "Did you dream about Jess again?"

Sam shrugged. "Uh-I'm gonna go and get dressed. D'you have anywhere in mind to look for Dad?"

Dean shook his head. "Maybe Neverland?"

"Then how about we find a new job?" Sam suggested, standing up carefully and trying not to show the pain it caused him. A currently rare smile lightened his face. "Kill some evil sons of b*tches?"

"Sounds good to me," Dean replied, but his eyes were still measuring. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes and went to pick up his clothes, retreating to the bathroom to get dressed. Dean smiled to himself at his little brother's modesty, and went back to his research-he wasn't about to let on to Sam, but all the windows open on the screen were to do with the symptoms of stress-related illnesses.

…...

Sam and Dean drove to the village to find some breakfast-the food at the motel was not even recognisable. Dean was planning to take it easy for a little while, stall finding a job until he was sure Sam had healed properly-there was no way the kid was at a hundred percent yet, with the state he had been in the night before. But Sam wasn't about to admit it-he was driven, angry, determined about these things. It wasn't like him, but he had been that way since Jessica's death, and Dean knew that some time soon he was going to have to talk to his brother about it.

Just not yet.

They were seated in a diner on the main street, Dean eating some kind of sausage-he himself didn't know exactly what it was, but it tasted good-and Sam staring out of the window, apparently oblivious to the toast in front of him. Dean noticed this and decided that enough was enough.

"Eat, Sammy," he ordered. Sam jumped, startled, as he looked back at Dean.

"It's Sam," he said predictably. "And I'm not really hungry."

"Yeah, well, I don't care. You lost a lot of blood last night, you need to eat to get your strength back." Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Dean was not finished. "And if you tell me you're not hungry then I know it's either your injuries or you're worried about something, and if it's the injuries then I'm not letting you go anywhere else. So spill."

"Dean," Sam said intently. "I'm fine. I promise."

"Anyone ever tell you you're the world's worst liar, Sammy?"

Sam was kept from replying by the sight of a fire truck rushing past, accompanied by the earsplitting wailing siren. The waitress who was just passing their table stopped to watch it and tutted.

"That'll make three big ones this week," she said ruefully. "I hope they get them out this time."

Sam's head snapped round towards her. "Wait-" he said urgently. "Three big fires _this week_?"

She nodded sadly. "Don't know what the town's coming to. Last one they were sure was deliberate. And it was so sad what happened to those poor girls."

"What happened?" Sam asked her. She lowered her voice.

"That's the thing," she murmured. "Every fire this week, there's been someone trapped inside, and every time it's a blonde woman. That's why they're saying it's a serial killer." She shrugged. "I don't know myself but you just better watch your back around here, kid."

"Thanks," Sam said, and shot to his feet. She looked startled, and he threw a few notes down onto the table, aimed a significant glance at Dean and was out of the diner like a bat out of hell. Dean shot the waitress an apologetic smile.

"That's my brother," he said cheerfully. "He gets a little nervy." And he followed Sam out onto the street.

Sam had not waited-at first Dean could not even see him, then noticed his tall, lanky figure running off down the street. Dean swore and yelled his name-Sam stopped, turned and shouted back; "No time!" And ran on. Dean swore again, knowing he would never catch Sam now-annoyingly, though Dean was still more muscular, probably stronger and almost always beat Sam in a fight, his little brother had the advantage of his height and was a much faster runner. Still, Dean had his methods...he swung into the car and followed Sam the high-tech way.

He did not have to be a genius to tell where Sam was headed, but he was becoming extremely worried about why by the time he reached the scene of the fire-the truck was parked outside an apartment block with flames streaming from the upper windows-Dean could see, to his horror, the shapes of people waving desperately out of the windows. Suddenly panicked he looked around for Sam-then caught sight of his brother, held firmly by the arm by a cop and looking absolutely furious. He sighed and made his way over to them through the crowd.

"Uh-officer, can you let him go now?" he asked. Sam rolled his eyes at him and the cop reluctantly let go of him.

"If _you_ can stop him running into burning buildings," he said. Dean felt a throb of horror go through him-how could Sam be that stupid? "Who are you, anyway?" the officer asked him. "Are you two together?"

"I'm his brother," Dean replied, grabbed Sam's arm and dragged him away through the resistant crowd once more. Sam swung to face him, anger and desperation twisting his face.

"Dean you heard what the waitress said this could be the thing that killed Jessica!"

"Don't be stupid!" Dean returned. "This is gonna be some kind of warped fire spirit if it's anything supernatural and sure it could be a job but it is not worth burning alive over, you hear me? Why the hell would you try and go in there, Sam? You have a death wish or something?"

"I'm just trying to find the thing killed Mom and Jess," Sam said angrily. "And this could be it! Fires, right, and blonde women dying in them every time? It fits!"

"It doesn't," Dean told him, although he had to admit it kind of did. "You hear me? This is not what we're looking for and for God's sake Sam I thought we'd gotten past this! This isn't like you at all, can't you just stop and think for five seconds? Even if you were right do you really think you'd accomplish anything by going in there? You'd die, Sam, you understand? You'd _die_!"

People were starting to look round at them now, some annoyed, some concerned. Dean shook his head in exasperation and dragged Sam further away, back round the corner where he had parked the Impala. He noticed that Sam wasn't fighting him, but was only worried by it when he looked back at the kid and saw his face white and sweaty, saw that he was shaking. But he still looked angry-it seemed like he had only gone with Dean because he had no strength left to resist.

"We're leaving," Dean said tersely. "Get in the car, Sam."

Sam didn't move. "You don't know what it's like," he whispered suddenly. "I hear her all the time, Dean, it's my fault, she even says so. You don't know..." His face tightened suddenly, as if he was fighting tears. Suddenly he pulled his gun from the back of his jeans and waved it before his face. "I'm ready," he pleaded. "I could've taken whatever it was, I could've _ended this_!" His voice rose to a shout. "And dammit you don't understand, I could've..." He gave a kind of pained gasp and Dean was sure he saw tears in the kid's eyes as he turned away. "I'm the one killed her," he whispered, his back to Dean. "I should be the one dead." And then he was running, down the back alley so Dean couldn't follow in the Impala, running wildly, recklessly, in the direction of the forest. Dean stood frozen, horrified by this outpouring of grief, and then suddenly it clicked. He had to stop Sam before he did something really stupid-his parting words echoed in his mind-_I should be the one dead_...and the gun in his hand...

"_No_, Sammy," Dean whispered, and then he was in the car and hitting the road, terrified that it was already too late. His fault, he should have stopped this sooner...too late...

He had reached the road leading through the forest where they had fought the skinwalker when he heard it, loud and piercing, instantly recognisable, a death knell and the worst sound he had ever heard at that moment-a gunshot. And birds flooded from the trees above, startled into motion, and Dean could not bear to think of the implications of that single shot.

Sammy wouldn't-he wouldn't do that-

Would he?

**Hehe I'm evil I know…please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for your reviews!**

Chapter 5:

Dean pounded through the undergrowth, heart in his mouth. He had had to leave the Impala just off the road, the forest track being far too narrow to get it through, and been forced to continue on foot. Sam could not have got far in, he thought desperately, praying for a sound, a sign, anything...Sam could not have killed himself, it was surely impossible...had to be...not Sam…

Abruptly the track opened onto a small, woody glade, and the first thing Dean saw was the crumpled figure of his little brother hunched at the bole of a tree across from him. The second was the shattered tree stump directly in front of Sam-shattered by the impact of a bullet. The relief that washed over Dean was almost enough to make him sway-but then he noticed that, despite the noise he had made entering the glade, Sam had neither moved nor looked up. He came closer and saw that the youth had his face buried in his hands, that he was shaking with sobs, and, most disturbing of all, that the side of his shirt was stained with blood from the earlier wound. Dean did not even think the words 'chick flick moment'. He just rushed forwards and fell to his knees beside Sam, one arm coming out to wrap around the kid's shoulders. Sam tensed at his touch and a heavy shudder went through his body as he struggled to control himself.

"Hey, Sammy, hey, it's okay, I'm here..." Dean heard himself whispering the words as if Sam was five years old again, terrified after waking from a nightmare. But this was all too real. "C'mon, Sam, it's okay..."

Sam gasped in air and his voice, when he spoke, was harsh with pain and grief. "Dean...I can't...can't...stop seeing her...my fault..." He stopped, his shaking increasing. "Can't...can't breathe..." he whispered suddenly, and his head shot up and Dean saw the terror in his eyes. Great, he thought. Trust Sammy to have a panic attack now...

"Yes you can," he said intently, knowing that all he could do in this situation was try and calm his little brother down. "Yes you can, Sammy, breathe with me, okay? In...out...in...out..." He made Sam sit straight to open his airway, holding his shoulders to steady him as he gasped for air. "You gotta calm down, Sammy," he chanted softly. "C'mon, just relax, breathe..." Slowly, very slowly, Sam's breathing eased and deepened and he looked up at his brother with a pitiful kind of thankfulness in his wide hazel eyes. Not for the first time in the last few days, Dean was struck by how young and vulnerable his brother could look in times of duress-not twenty-two but more like five or six. Broken. The youth did not move, concentrating on his breathing for a few minutes, and Dean did not hurry him, letting Sam take his time. Then finally he looked up.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered.

"Hey," Dean said quietly. "You got nothing to be sorry for, Sammy. Okay? You're gonna be okay this time. I'm here for you, you know that right?"

Sam looked like he was inwardly debating whether to smile or cry. "Yeah. I know."

Dean knew that he should mention Jessica, that he should say something about how he had thought Sam had run off to kill himself, that what had happened to his girlfriend had not been his fault, but he just did not know what to say. Sam would not talk about it and that was unusual enough-Sam always wanted to talk, when Dean did not, preferring to keep his emotions private. He could remember clearly a time not so long ago, when Sam had been maybe eighteen, when the kid had made him sit down and literally talk for half an hour about exactly why he found it necessary to follow their father's orders to the extent he did. Dean had put up with it at first, humouring Sam who had seemed so distracted and scared the past few days-he learned later what it was because he had just received his acceptance letter from Stanford and was debating how to break the news to his family-but had quickly become enraged and stormed out, calling his little brother something...rather unpleasant.

That Sam refused to talk now was a sign that he was really, really hurting inside. And Dean hated that, but he just did not see anything he could do about it.

"You ready to get outa here?" Dean asked after a few more moments of silence. Sam nodded and struggled to his feet-then gasped in pain and fell against the tree. It was then that Dean remembered the blood and reached out to steady Sam, lowering him gently back down onto the ground. The kid's face was white and scared, he was clearly hurting, and when Dean pulled off his jacket and lifted his shirt to inspect the wound from the previous night he cried out in pain through gritted teeth.

"Easy there, just let me take a look...think you broke the stitches is all..." Clearly Sam had, and it was not really unexpected with the exertions of the day. But it still should have stopped bleeding by now...Dean toyed with the idea of taking Sam to the hospital, and wondered if Sam would actually let him.

"Uh-Sammy, I think I should get you to hospital this time..."

"Not...Sammy..." Sam gasped, eyes clenched shut. "And I'm okay..."

"Yeah, I can see that. C'mon, I just want them to check you over..."

"No," Sam protested. "No, can't we...just go...go find a room or something...please, Dean?"

Dean didn't like it, didn't like seeing Sam in this kind of pain. But the kid had had worse, and Dean could deal with it, and they had painkillers in the car...if Sam insisted then Dean would go along with it this time. But this time only.

…...

Dean was sitting awake at the laptop once again that night, in yet another motel room. Sam lay motionless and a little bloodstained beneath the covers of his bed, in a painkiller-heavy sleep That was the one good thing about Sam being injured, Dean thought dryly-it gave him an excuse to _make_ the kid get some sleep for once.

But he was worried. Not especially about his little brother's physical injuries, which he were far from the worst he had ever had, but because of whatever was going on inside Sam's head. This spirit-Dean was so sure that it was not there. And nearly running into a burning building on the off-chance that Jessica's killer might just be inside it...Dean had overreacted when he had feared Sam's committing suicide. But he did not think that he had overreacted by much.

"That does it," he whispered at the computer, too distracted to realise how odd he must have looked doing so. "He's gotta see someone this time. Even just to talk to someone who knows their stuff. He needs help."

And he's not letting me give it to him.

He looked over at Sam, motionless in the bed, his chestnut bangs strewn across his forehead, his face seeming ten or more years younger in sleep. He could remember that time, just, when Sam was just a little boy who adored him, untouched by darkness or fear or grief or anger. Sam stirred and mumbled something in his sleep and Dean suddenly smiled. Maybe that boy was not so far away after all-older, much taller, more headstrong and less innocent of pain-but not so far away.

Hell, I sound like a friggin' soccer mom...I am so glad Sam can't hear my thoughts.

…...

The next morning saw Dean and Sam trekking the wreckage of the burned-out building from the day before. There was very little to go on, though Dean did get some EMF in one particularly charred corner of the ruin. Sam walked behind him, almost completely silent, watchful. The fire had, as they had expected, claimed the life of another young blonde woman, Emma Richards, and her body had not yet been found.

"Think it's a fire wraith or something," Dean said at last. "All we need to do is catch it now."

"How?" Sam asked quietly. "Track down every blonde girl in town and keep tabs on them all?"

"Sounds good to me," Dean interjected, wagging his eyebrows. Sam did not grace this with a reply.

"What's with this town, anyway? Skinwalkers, wraiths..." He shook his head. "Something's off about this..." And his eyes fixed-he gave a gasp of horror and his hand came up to point behind Dean, who did not even have to ask.

"Let me guess. Your invisible friend is standing right behind me." He turned and waved wildly in the direction Sam was pointing, making an obscene gesture. "There," he said, turning back. "That should do it."

Sam stared at him, his hand dropping to his side. "Dean-_he put his hands around your neck_! How did you not _feel_ anything at least?"

"All right, that's enough," Dean said, turning away to the door so that his brother did not see the worry and anger in his eyes. "Let's go before the cops show up. I wanna talk to you about something."

Sam looked surprised but followed his big brother out of the shell of the house and into the street. Dean went over to the Impala and got inside; Sam did the same.

"So what is it you want to talk to me about?" Sam asked him. Dean looked very strange-his face was tight as if with anger, but there was nothing but uncertainty in his eyes.

"Tell you when we get to the motel."

Sam twisted round in his seat to look at him. "What? Dean, what's wrong?"

"Just wait a few minutes, okay? Jeez..."

Angry and a little scared, Sam subsided, wondering what on earth could have gotten his brother so tense, so suddenly. Maybe he _had_ felt something when the spirit put its cold hands around his neck as if to strangle, and wanted to talk to him about it safe behind salt lines? That would make things much easier...clearly, Sam could see, he was going to have to do something about that ghost before anything else, or Dean could be in some very serious trouble.

Sam just could not work out why it hadn't _acted_ yet. It wasn't like violent spirits to delay taking their victims, and there had been enough opportunities for it to get at Dean...maybe it had to wait for a certain moment or something...he did not understand. But he knew that it was there, he knew as well as he knew his own name that he had not hallucinated it.

Upon reaching the motel, Dean refused to talk until, as Sam had expected, they were back in their room and safe behind the salt lines. But as it turned out, this was not because of his fear of any spirit, but rather to insulate them from prying eyes and ears. He threw his bag down on the bed and rounded on Sam.

"I want you to see someone."

Sam blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You heard me." Dean's face was set and determined, almost angry. "I want you to see someone about these hallucinations."

"What?" Sam repeated. "You're kidding."

"No, I'm not, Sam," Dean told him. "I'm deadly serious. I think-I know-you're seeing things that aren't there and what's more no matter what you told me you're not acting like yourself. Is this because that demon on the plane told you Jessica was in hell? Because she's not, you know that right? Why would she be? It was lying to you, Sammy. Demons lie. And I know you're going to be mad about this but I'm not just going to sit here and let you go crazy."

Sam made a real effort not to lose it right then. "Dean-I'm not crazy! I'm fine! You have to believe me."

Dean shook his head. "Sorry, Sam, but no way. I intend to make sure you get some help."

Sam saw red at last, feeling the accumulated rage of so many weeks boiling up within him like a tidal wave, uncontrollable. "What the hell is your problem, Dean? You just decide I'm crazy 'cause you can't see the thing that's trying to kill you?" He moved towards the door but Dean backed up against it, blocking him. "Nuh-uh, Sam, you're not running out on me this time."

"Oh yeah?" Sam demanded angrily. "Stop me." He stepped closer, unwilling to really start a fight. But Dean did not move and Sam raised his hands threateningly.

"Dean-"

"You're in no condition to fight, Sammy," Dean told him quietly. "You'll break your stitches again and I don't want to have to do all that a third time."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Let me out, Dean."

"Promise me you'll see someone."

"No way."

"See someone and I'll try and work out how to see the thing you say is stalking me."

"No." Sam's face was obstinate-Dean knew that look. It meant that his little brother could not be swayed. A _'No I'm not planning on getting any sleep tonight, Fine I'll go to Stanford and not come home then, I'd never let Dad order me around like that, It's my turn for the cereal packet prize' _look.

"So what's your deal?"

Sam's eyes flashed warily. He did not believe that his brother was really giving in so easily.

"You help me hunt this thing."

Dean gave a twisted smile. "But what's in it for me, Sam?"

Sam scowled. "You survive."

"And if it's not there?"

"It _is_."

"If it isn't?" Sam did not reply. Dean sighed.

"Look, Sam. I book you a session with a shrink, and in return we _try_ and hunt this invisible spirit. How's that?"

Sam frowned. Clearly, getting Dean to take this seriously could be the only way of saving his life...but then again...talking to a counsellor? What kind of stupid idea was that?

Still, if it would make Dean listen to him about this...

He took a deep breath. "Okay," he said, clenching his hands. "_One_ session with this shrink. And we hunt."

Dean grinned evilly. "I knew you'd come round in the end, Sammy."

Sam turned away, fuming and certain that Dean had somehow gotten the better deal. "Jerk."

"B*tch."

How did I get myself into this? Sam thought. How the hell...he hated counselling. It drove him crazy, ironically.

But he was just going to have to put up with it, and hope that Dean would be pacified and take him seriously about the spirit. It might be his only hope.

After all, it was only one small conversation with a qualified doctor. How bad could it be?

**Didn't want to put Sam in a hospital yet because...he's going to end up in one for long enough later in the story! And the counsellor thing-well, I have a thing about them myself. And since I'm backtracking to season 1 I thought of that part in Asylum where Sam sees that doctor to get info about Roosevelt Asylum, and what with my own phobia of that stuff I thought I'd just explore it a bit!**


	6. Chapter 6

**I have never been to counselling myself, but it has always been a bit of a phobia of mine. This is what I imagine it could be like, trying to stay out of the whole evil nightmare shrink thing which I realise is not realistic!...obviously I have no experience of the real thing so please point out anything I do really wrong!...And like I said before, that part where Sam sees the shrink in Asylum just really made me interested in what might have happened...**

**I do not mean to offend, in case it comes across that way. Please bear in mind that the sequence is from Sam's point of view and that he is very angry and uncomfortable. If I do offend feel free to yell at me but I promise it is not intentional.**

Chapter 6:

"So you're Sam Reynolds."

Sam nodded, unsmiling. He was doing this on sufferance alone and he just could not wait for it to be over. He was sitting opposite Dr Alliston, a tall, thin man of about fifty years, but who was completely bald. He was not, to Sam's eternal relief, wearing a white surgical coat, but he did have the half-moon glasses and squinting, prying grey eyes. His office was bare and tidy; there was a view overlooking the park, probably intended to cheer things up a little, but since it was pouring with rain it just made the entire scene more depressing. _It's a good job I'm not actually here 'cause I'm crazy, _Sam thought darkly_. I hate you, Dean_.

"Your brother booked this appointment," Alliston told him, flipping through the pages of a file in front of him. _Probably just to look professional_, Sam thought unkindly. He was in no mood to be nice. "He seemed quite...adamant about it."

Sam shrugged. "Did he tell you why he thought I should do it?"

"He did not. He said that you were...stressed, not acting like yourself, that you were perhaps showing signs of some kind of mild schizophrenia..."

"He said that?" Sam clenched his fists on his lap. _Screw you, Dean. I am not letting you get away with this._

Alliston leaned forwards, clasping his hands. "Why don't you tell me how you feel about that, Sam?" he asked. "About your brother? You were...road tripping with him? How would you say your relationship is?"

Sam gave a tight smile. "I kinda want to kill him right now."

Alliston raised his eyebrows. "Because he booked you in for this visit? Surely he was just trying to help you, Sam."

"He's just throwing his weight around, as usual," Sam muttered angrily, not stopping to think about what he was saying-or how a professional psychiatrist might take it. Alliston looked very interested. Creepily interested.

"What do you mean by that? Do you feel like he pushes you around?"

_Hell yeah. It's Dean, he's my older brother and it's what he does. But I'm not telling you anything_. "Uh, no. I mean...I'm mad at him right now, is all." He knew he had to try and seem as sane and normal as possible, and not let any of his real life slip through, or Alliston was really going to get into his swing. He tried to smile. "Uh-he gets, uh, paranoid, about looking after me, that's the only reason..."

"Do you feel like he's overprotective of you? Maybe smothering?"

_Yes_. "No, not really."

Alliston made a note in his paper. "Sam," he said gravely. "I'm here to help. I want you to talk to me and tell me the truth. Now I think you're lying to defend your brother right now, and if I'm to help you you need to stop."

Sam gritted his teeth. "I'm not lying."

Alliston inclined his head, letting it go. "Sam...your brother told me that you had lost someone quite recently. Someone very dear to you."

Sam froze. Just how much had Dean told this creep? "Uh-did he?" he asked shakily, playing for time. _Why, Dean, why would you do this to me_? He had not dreamed about Jessica that night for the very good reason that he had not been to sleep, instead staying up watching TV and researching until the sun came up. "Well, I mean...yeah, but..."

"Can you tell me who it was?"

Sam scowled. "No."

Alliston nodded. "Very well. From what your brother said you seemed to have cared very much about this person."

Sam shrugged, beginning to panic. He did not want to talk about Jessica. He did not want to be here. How long was he supposed to stay? Surely his paid time would run out pretty soon...

"Dean fears that you blame yourself for what happened."

Sam finally lost his temper. "What the hell is with this? Did Dean tell you my whole freakin' life story over the phone? I swear I'm gonna kill him for this-"

"Sam, your brother means no harm. I can assure you I will not be telling him anything you say. This is purely confidential."

"Well, we're wasting our time. I have nothing to say to you, so if that's okay I'm just gonna leave." He stood up and made for the door. Alliston did not rise to stop him, only watched until he reached for the handle.

"No-one can help you if you don't let them, Sam," he said quietly. Sam stopped, did not turn back.

"I don't need any help," he returned, and slammed out. As soon as he had passed the door he whirled to face the wall, bracing his hands on it and lowering his head so that his overlong bangs fell into his face. He forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths, fighting to calm down-he was furious at Dean. Trying to help by making him talk to someone-annoying but okay. Telling him about Jessica? Saying he thought Sam might be schizophrenic? That was just below the belt and Sam wasn't going to forgive him easily for it. He did not want to go back to their motel, did not want to have to face Dean just yet, wherever he was...he was just going to go off and walk alone for a while. Try and cool down before he went home. It would do them no good if he went off the deep end at Dean now.

He was so filled with anger, so wild and hurting inside. He was sick of it-but there was nothing he could do but try to carry on.

…...

Dean had spent the morning investigating the fire wraith case-he had not found much. He knew that fire wraiths were essentially particularly pyromaniac spirits who tended to fix onto certain victims connected with their old lives-this one apparently had apparently had a thing for blonde women. And so Dean had been researching the history of the town in search for some nymphomaniac who had died in a fire, and so far, the town being so small, had come up with nothing. There had been very few fires at all in the last hundred years, and he just could not make anything fit.

It did not help, of course, that he was so distracted with regard to what was happening to Sam. He could not believe that he had agreed to hunt down a ghost that did not exist just to keep his little brother happy...balance that hunt with this one. He wouldn't like the idea of Sammy hunting after being injured like he was at all, and if Sam did turn out to be mentally unstable then it just made things worse. He's not crazy, though, Dean told himself fiercely, scowling down at the old piles of paper he was meant to be perusing in the library. He's just...stressed. He'll get over it... His gaze wandered to the library window as he stared wistfully into the distance, wishing to be free to go out and enjoy the rare moment of sunshine, wising that things would be okay again.

It was then that he saw Sam, who had not known what Dean planned to do while he was seeing that counsellor, striding angrily along the street, head bowed so that his untidy bangs shielded his face, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his old brown hoodie. He looked unhappy, furious…to Dean's experienced eye, broken. Dean stood up, preparing to go out and follow his younger brother-and then was stopped short in horror. The whole world seemed to come clanging down around his ears-nothing made sense except that he had been wrong, horribly wrong, that Sam had been wrong too, that everything was just _wrong_ and it might be too late to do anything about it. Suddenly it all made sense and for a moment Dean could not even move.

He was staring at a spirit. It was a man, tall and poker-faced and dressed in a suit, and his eyes burned faintly red, even from this distance, across the street and out of the window. It was the spirit Sam had described, the one Dean had never seen, never believed in. And it was real. But it was clearly not following Dean, though it was moving, flickering along the street, eyes fixed on its prey. That prey was most certainly not Dean-Sam had got that wrong.

The spirit was stalking Sam.

Dean rushed out of the library so fast the pages of the books he left open on the table fluttered like leaves in the wind. He crashed onto the street, but Sam had already turned the corner and the spirit too was gone, after him. He slammed around it himself, but by then Sam and his supernatural stalker had both completely disappeared-a crossroads lay ahead and Dean had no way of guessing where his brother might be. He yelled Sam's name into the impassive market crowd, hopelessly.

…..

Sam walked fast, furiously, head bowed. He was not aware of where he was going, just that he had to be moving, had to be out-when he finally looked up and found himself in the middle of a dark, deserted alley he was surprised. The buildings pressed so close together they seemed to blot out the sky and an icy wind shivered through the littering of dead leaves and old newspapers clogging the drains. Suddenly he was certain that someone was watching him and whirled round-nothing. Only an empty road.

He rubbed a hand across his face, suddenly tired, suddenly sick of it all. He just wanted things to go back to how they had been, when he could sleep through the night, when his everyday life did not involve weapons and monsters, when he could block out old griefs and pains with the happiness and expectation of his new life. When Jessica was alive and his to hold, when he could deal with the memories, when everything was simple and okay. How was it fair that it was him who had had to sacrifice everything, lose everything? How was any of it fair? He had never wanted this life, done everything he could to escape it, just tried to be himself-and yet it still had not been enough, and it had killed Jessica. How was that _fair_?

At this point he just wanted out.

Again, that sensation of being watched. He turned, more slowly this time, every sense alert. He was so sure that he was not alone-and yet there was nothing to see. He bent slowly, pretending to tie his shoelace, listening hard, thinking hard. His phone was in his pocket, he had a knife in his boot. But why was he even thinking about fighting? He was just being paranoid. Even if there was anyone else here why would they be threatening him? At this rate he'd have to check himself back in with that shrink. He forced himself to stand up, took a deep breath and walked on. He glanced down at his watch-not as much time had passed as he had thought. He had left the shrink a little after four and it was only ten past now. He frowned, suddenly struck by a gnawing fear, and shook it. Listened. Nothing. His watch had stopped.

He looked to the end of the alley, a nameless, crawling fear inching over him. He could see the bright lights and cars, hear the soft rumble of traffic and voices, many metres ahead, the same behind. Not far away. But maybe far enough?

Calm down, Sam. Get a grip, okay? You're being stupid. Just calm down and get the hell outa here…

He sensed the knife slash past his ear before he heard it and threw himself aside, jumping to his feet, yanking the knife from his boot, casting about him-nothing. He put his hand to the side of his head and it came away red-something had cut a long scratch across his temple. Fear welled up inside but he forced himself to stand his ground.

"Show yourself!" he hissed. Nothing.

He glanced once more towards the entrance of the alley, and broke into a sudden run, pounding along the road towards the light. He heard a cackle of laughter behind him but did not turn-a rushing of wind. Something caught his foot and tripped him-he fell hard, the knife flying out of his hand, a long cut grated into his jaw. He rolled over, going to stand up, but something hit him again, some immensely strong invisible force, and he was thrown back, struggling to breathe. "Stop!" he gasped. "Who are you? Why-" Another blow and he could not restrain a yell of pain as he heard one of his ribs snap. He slumped back against the road, choking, gasping, fighting to move through the agony.

"No-"

Again, that invisible, horrifically strong punch, this time to his stomach. And again-he fought it but his hands could not make contact. It was like fighting smoke. Just for an instant a face flashed out above him-an old man, features wrinkled and twisted, eyes burning red, and he gasped as he realised-he had been wrong. The spirit had not been stalking his brother after all…

And just as the spirit hit him again, just before pain and white light exploded through his head and he saw stars as he finally lost consciousness, his last thought was one of reckless relief. Because at least this meant Dean was safe.

…

Dean, frantic with worry, came racing out into the middle of the road, shouting his brother's name. The alley loomed around him, empty, mocking, grey. He bent over, leaning on his knees, panting, fighting to think.

He looked up, and there he saw it. His heart jumped into his mouth-horror pulsed through him. A knife lay on the road only metres away, a strong clasp-knife in a leather sheath. He recognised it, because he had known it for years; it belonged to Sam. Dean had helped him carve his initials into the leather himself when Sam had been eleven years old and there they still were, wobbly but true, lasting: S. W. Dean fell to his knees, grabbed up the knife, stared ahead. Sam had been here. He had taken out his weapon for a fight, and he had lost it. And now he was gone.

"Sammy-" Dean whispered. "Sammy-no-"

And then he looked up and he saw a light burning high above him against the darkening sky, in the attic window of a tall, forbidding if tumbledown house, its bricks stained, a single leering gargoyle perched on its roof. Dean stared up at the light, and down at the knife in his hand, and he made for the front door.

**So it's coming clear! Next chapter will explain a lot more, hope you enjoyed!**


	7. Chapter 7

I am so, so sorry for the time it's taken me to get this chapter up. I had exams, which have just finished, and also various personal problems to deal with, but anyway sorry, but now I'll stop apologising and get on with the story at last!

Just as a warning, this chapter is the main reason the story is rated T. I may be being paranoid, but there it is…

Chapter 7:

Drip

Drip.

Drip.

Somewhere not far away, water was dripping onto a hard surface.

Sam opened his eyes to utter darkness. He felt cold and nauseous, and his head hurt like nothing else. When he rolled it to the side, trying to get his bearings he wondered if someone was actually hammering nails into it, and he almost threw up.

Where am I? he thought dazedly, then braced himself and tried to sit up. It was then that he became aware of two things-the first, that he was bound fast to something hard by some sort of leather straps, and the other, that with every movement, even every deep breath his chest seemed to explode with pain. Fighting to breathe through the agony and dizziness he remembered the spirit attacking him on the street, remembered the sound of his rib cracking. Hell, he thought hopelessly. What's going on?

"Hey!" he called hoarsely into the surrounding darkness. "Hey, is anyone there?"

No sound but only the continued dripping. Sam found himself breathing in time to it, it was beginning to annoy him, actually. His hearing seemed bizarrely magnified, he imagined that he could hear every droplet hitting the floor and exploding into a million more, all infinitesimally tiny, and even the miniscule beats of those tiny fragments exploding, and on and on as they continued to burst and fall…and then the next drip, beginning it all again. He winced. Such thinking made his head hurt worse than ever.

"Dean?" he called hopelessly. He did not actually expect his brother to respond; it was almost default to call out for him in times of duress. He did, however, get an answer, though not the one that he had hoped for.

"You want your brother," a cold, shuddering voice hissed, horribly close to his ear. Sam started, cringed at the pain. "Who's there?" He flexed his hands, which were steadily going numb, hoping to free them from their bonds, but it was impossible. There was even a strap across his neck, pulled just tight enough to restrict his breathing but not cut it off entirely, preventing him from moving his head too far. He realised quite abruptly that he was bound vertically, upright, not lying down as he had assumed. That would account for a lot of the disorientation. But why could he not see? It was probably just the lack of light in here…it wasn't as if spirits had a problem with darkness.

"Your darkest nightmares, Sam Winchester," came the voice. Sam might have dismissed the phrase as a cliché, but it was all too easy to take it entirely seriously, tied up here in the dark, injured how badly he could not tell, completely at the mercy of the owner of that terrifying voice. The spirit, he suddenly realised. _No_-the spirit I thought was stalking Dean…he cursed his stupidity. What an absolutely ridiculous mistake…

"You've been following me for days, haven't you," he said, trying hard to keep his voice steady. "Why? Who are you?"

"Even you cannot identify me," the voice whispered, shrivelling Sam up inside. "No, hunters do not often come across the likes of me. I am what you call a spectre. Do you know me now?"

Sam was filled with a burning horror. Spectres-yes, he knew about them, though he had never come across one nor met anyone who had. Spirits who got inside your mind, used your grief and pain to unbalance you, to lure you into their dark hideaways, then caused that same pain to manifest and kill you…somehow. Sam had never actually found out exactly how, but he had a nasty feeling he might be about to find out. That explained so much-his recent all-consuming rage, the way the spectre's apparitions had always been timed just to make him seem the most insane to Dean, even the fires in the town they had believed the work of fire wraiths and he had suspected to be whatever had killed Jessica… all an elaborate trap orchestrated by this…creature. At whose mercy Sam was now at, entirely. He and Dean must have entered its territory, or maybe it had crossed their path, and it had latched onto him…

He tried to remain calm, knowing that there was nothing he could do, that there was no way he could talk this thing out of whatever it had planned, that this time he had really messed up and he saw no way that he could get out of it…Dean was surely looking for him by now, but quite honestly his chances of finding him were very small. And Sam could only fight not to panic, lose his head completely, knowing as he did that this time to was going to die.

"Yes…" the voice went on, chilling Sam to the bone. "Yes, you are so full of pain…a feast, Sam Winchester, a feast. Your poor little girlfriend, left to die all alone, all alone…"

"Shut up," Sam snapped in sudden anger. That horrible cackle once more.

"Does it hurt, Sam? Her lovely face all twisted in pain, her lifeblood dripping on your face…can you _imagine_ how that must have felt, Sam? The stench of her burning flesh in the fire, the way you saw her bones charring away to dust. All that's left of her, Sam, ashes…"

"Shut the _hell up_!" Sam yelled, straining desperately against his bonds, wild with rage. But he could not get free, he had no way to block out the spectre's voice as it whispered on and on, describing Jessica's last moments as it had seen them in his mind, endlessly, with ghoulish relish, in fierce detail…there was no way to keep from hearing it, to hide from this cruellest of tortures.

…

It had taken Dean quite a while to pick the lock of the front door of the old house-he did not want to kick it down, for fear of alerting whoever-or whatever-was inside. Of course, he did not know for sure that anything was, but the faint light burning in the upper window was the only lead he had to Sam's disappearance, and he had to start somewhere.

He only prayed that he had made the right choice-he did not think Sam had enough time to afford him a mistake like this.

He need not have worried, though; the door swung open, the creaking of its rusty hinges eerily like a far-off human scream, to reveal a wide, dusty hall with large black and white marble paving stones, everything covered in a thick layer of grey dust, and completely deserted. He glanced around cautiously, then stepped inside, his hand unconsciously drawing the gun from the back of his jeans and aiming it in front of him. The light he had seen had been at the very top of the house, he remembered, and began to climb the stairs, wincing every time the wood creaked beneath his foot, every sense alert.

…

Sam had his eyes screwed shut, though it made no difference since through the intense darkness he could see nothing anyway, and had no way to block his ears, with his hands bound as they were. On and on went the spectre's icy voice, dwelling on the sound a blade must have made as it plunged through the delicate layers of Jessica's flesh; the _agony_ it must be to feel your inner organs puncturing, filling with your own lifeblood; the sheer terror in her pain-filled, animal screams as she was pinned to the ceiling, as she realised that Sam would not come-

"Shut up!" Sam found himself yelling again, in a final, panicked desperation, although he knew he would not be heeded. "Just shut the hell up!"

The sneering recital ceased, though the voice did not. "You were such a feast, Sam, a feast indeed. How would it feel if I told you that I never influenced or planted your nightmares, if all I did was play on what you already had, making you angry…" A soft laugh. "The dreams were all your own, Sam. How does that make you feel?"

"My brother," Sam said tightly and quietly, "is going to kill you so slowly you won't even be able to scream in pain by the end. I hope you realise that."

"Still defiant, is it? Good. The stronger the mind the more fun it is to break, you know," the spectre informed him. "And your dear brother will never find us, Sam. We're all alone…and I'd wager he doesn't even know how to deal with something like me, not like you do." Suddenly the cold increased and Sam imagined the thing leaning close to him, horribly close. "And whatever he does, it'll all come a little too late for you, Sammy, won't it?" The cold retreated a little-the spectre was thinking out loud. "Hmm. Now, how best to go about this? I'd recreate the poor girl's dying moments in front of you, but that wouldn't really work for you right now, would it? So as opposed to seeing it, how about we let you _feel_ what you've been wanting to feel all this time-_what she felt_?"

Sam bit down his scream, braced himself-what he was not expecting to feel was his bonds falling away, so that he crumpled helplessly to his knees on the floor, dazed and dizzy, his chest searing with pain. Gripping the wall, disorientated in the darkness, he managed to drag himself to his feet, head pounding, spinning.

"Excellent," the spectre said approvingly. "Choosing to die on your feet-I like that." And suddenly Sam felt himself thrown back against the wall, flat out, an invisible hard force pressing in on him, so tight that he found he could not breathe. Gasping, choking, he felt his body lifting, being literally dragged upwards along the wall. His already spinning head struck the ceiling and he let out a yell of pain and shock-this could not be happening. This could not be happening. It could not be serious-he was not really going to-

Nausea washed through him, he was certain that he was falling, he just had not moved. He lay spread-eagled on the ceiling, head hanging down towards the floor, unable to move, that invisible power holding him immobile. He was literally pinned to the ceiling just as Jess had been when he had looked up into those dead eyes-"No!" he gasped out, struggling with all his might, in vain. "God-"

"Nasty, isn't it," the spectre agreed. "Poor little Jessica. Now, what's next? Ah, yes…" And Sam felt a searing blade of agony drive across his abdomen, tearing deep through his skin, and his head rocked back in a silent howl of pain, teeth bared-it hurt too much even to scream. He could feel blood pouring through the wound, feel it staining his shirt, warm and wet, and there was far too much of it…he heard a strange, small, gasping sound, a sound of utter extremity, of unimaginable pain, and did not realise that he was the one making it.

"Nice effect," the spectre commented. "I like it…" And again and again Sam felt the gashes through his stomach, rending deep and horrible, above as well, horizontally across his chest and torso, almost his throat, and he was sobbing now, unable to scream, helpless in the sheer unending agony tearing his mind and body to pieces. He tried to breathe through it, tried to bear it, but it was impossible, he was going to die here, die in torment, like Jessica…

Jess-I'm so sorry-I wasn't here to save you from this-

"Ah, back to Jess, are we," the spectre said cheerfully. "Well, at least you know how she felt now. I wish I had killed her, Sam, I really do, but it's enough just copying the masterpiece on you…I only wish there was someone else here to see it."

Sam could feel himself losing consciousness now, and he almost welcomed it. He had lost far too much blood, he knew that much, and he was falling away now, into a deeper darkness, away from the blood and the pain and the cold and that terrible voice…he was losing touch with reality, barely cared that he was still pinned to the ceiling and bleeding to death from the stomach, like Jessica…_he could almost see her now,_ _hear her calling his name, smiling, and he was coming home and this time she was already here, alive in her own way, taking his hand_…

"Oh, I don't think so!" the voice snarled in his ear. "Can't have you dying on me yet, Sammy. There's one very important stage of this left first."

Sam could not speak. He was hovering on the brink of a gaping abyss, oblivion closing in from all sides. He fought to hold on, fought the drag of gravity and agony with all his strength, but he was aware that it would be a losing battle. It just would not take the spectre that long to complete this…he barely even understood its words, an odd buzzing filling his ears, even the pain fading. But he had been dwelling on it for so many long weeks now, and he was painfully aware what the final stage was going to be.

He felt the heat first, searingly close, and he heard himself gasp in shock. The spectre's laugh filled his consciousness-he prayed to black out now, blind and dying and bleeding, with so much worse to come, but Jessica had gone, the feeling of floating, of drifting, had entirely left him. He was horribly, impossibly, lucid-maybe the spectre had done something to his mind, preventing him from passing out? He would not be surprised to find such a thing in its power. He knew so little about them, everyone did, he barely even knew how to kill them and he had only found out by chance, years ago…but it was right. Dean did not know. Dean would have no idea what had happened to him, if he ever found him…

The heat drew closer. "D'you feel for Jessica any better now?" came the hissing voice. "D'you know the terror she would have felt? The agony?" And then he felt it, heard the crackling, the horror of his shirt catching fire, could smell the smoke now, suffocating, but he was preoccupied with the pain as the flames tore into his skin, his chest and stomach and legs, could feel them drawing nearer to his face, could feel them slowly consuming him, as they had Jessica-he could not keep from screaming now, endless, broken, choked howls of sheer horrific animal agony, but it did not stop, it did not _stop_, he could not stop it, helpless here while the creature burned him to death, like Jessica, on the ceiling, and he had never in all his years of hunting, dancing with danger, running and fighting, known anything like this driving endless fire as the spectre burned him alive.

**Um yes, it is another cliffy? Please leave me a review!**


	8. Chapter 8

I don't think this chapter is completely polished…but I also don't think it'll get much better if I mess around with it so…here it is and hopefully it's not too bad!

Chapter 8:

Dean, creeping gun in hand up the fourth flight of stairs, smelled the smoke first. He frowned-it seemed out of place in such dusty, austere surroundings. But it meant that there was _someone_ in this building-and then he heard the screaming, and his heart stood still. He would have known that scream anywhere-_Sam_.

He broke into a run, leaping up the stairs now, racing desperately for the attic where he had seen the light, where the smoke was coming from-fire. Somewhere, this building was on fire. It would be weak, unstable, he knew: it was an old house and deserted for a reason. Pretty soon it was just coming to come down on him. Going on up was getting close to suicide…

But this was _Sam_. He couldn't just leave him.

The screams just went on and on as he pounded up the stairs to the attic, until finally they began to fade. Knowing what that meant Dean began to hyperventilate with panic. "No, Sammy," he whispered desperately. "No, Sammy, hold on, hold on-" Smoke was pouring from under the bottom of the highest door and beyond it Dean could hear a crackling, smell the acrid stench of fire, and blood… He did not wait to fumble with the picks but rammed his foot squarely into the middle of the door, crumpling it like paper, and barged through. Instantly he was overcome by the heat and the smoke and stumbled, choking, squinting desperately through the haze.

"Sam!"

Nothing. His eyes darted around the cluttered corners of the little room-nothing. No human figure. Only fire. And yet-a kind of harsh, choked cough, and Dean felt something warm and wet splash onto his face. He raised his hand to it and gasped-it was blood. Barely daring to believe it, terrified and incredulous, he slowly looked up at the ceiling.

The scene leapt out at him like a physical punch to the soul. Sam was spread-eagled across the ceiling, head hanging down, his chest and stomach torn and shredded in horrific gashes pouring blood. And he was on fire.

Anyone else would have lost their head, panicked, ruined everything. But not Dean. He could see from the uneven rising and falling of his little brother's chest that Sam was still alive, though clearly not for long. He pulled his gun from the back of his jeans, gathered his courage, since he would only have one shot at this, and aimed at the rafters just beside Sam's head. The bullet embedded itself in the wood and a long crack appeared, jerking jaggedly across the battered ceiling, and quite suddenly the rafters were shattering, crashing into the smoke and chaos of the room, and Sam as if released from invisible bonds, came crashing down to the floor with horrific force, landing on his side and not moving, though the fire was still flickering across his clothing and body. Dean ran to him, fell across him with no other motive than to stop the fire, smothering the angry flames leaping all over Sam's body with his own hands, his own clothing. He did not notice the burns he sustained from this, only that Sam was lying there motionless and burned and bleeding, and every breath was shallower than the one before, and if Dean could just stop the _fire_-

"Well, if it isn't the champion player in this game after all," came a slow, mocking voice, a voice like nails down a blackboard, a voice that pulsed with the ultimate cruelty. Dean whirled round, saw nothing. Then, flickering softly and menacingly against the fire, the spirit loomed up, red eyes flashing with amusement, hands brought together in a slow, sarcastic handclap.

Dean did not move from his position crouched over Sam's broken body, but his eyes flared daggers. "You," he spat. "You son of a-"

"Oh, I couldn't have done it without you," the spirit informed him cheerfully. "It looked a lot like madness, didn't it? But no, your Sammy was just trying to save the person he cared about most. A pity that wasn't who he should have been worrying about." The silvery head shook slightly, a cruel smile lighting the spirit's lips. "You angered him, hurt him, sent him out alone, Dean. It's your fault he's here. And there's nothing you can do. Look at him-he's too far gone. You've lost. You can't save him."

"_No_," Dean snarled. No-it was not true-Sam was still alive-he read the flickering life still struggling inside his little brother with every tearing, rasping breath. There was still a chance-still time-

"And now you're both going to die," the spirit went on cheerfully. "I call that a good day's work."

"I think you underestimate me," Dean snapped. The spirit raised its ghostly hands in a perversely human gesture of exasperation. "You don't know what I am or how to deal with me, Dean. Face it and accept defeat like a man, why don't you?"

Dean shifted position, placing himself more firmly between Sam and their attacker. "Why don't you tell me what's going on here, then? What are you? And why Sam?"

"Oh, I doubt you've heard of me," the spirit replied. "I'm a spectre. And Sam…well, he was just so _juicy_ with all those painful feelings and memories. What can I say-I take what I get." That cracked and malevolent smile again, and this time Dean found himself lost for words, the breath snatched from his lungs with despair, because it was true. He had had no idea that spectres were even real-how the hell was he supposed to kill one?

Keep it talking, he told himself fiercely, fighting to keep calm. Keep it talking and maybe you'll think of something…

"Oh, I don't think so, somehow," the spectre laughed; Dean cursed, realising that it was reading his mind. "But if you want to talk while our Sammy breathes his last on the floor then that's fine by me."

That won't happen. Sammy, you better not die, okay? Hang in there. I'm working on this.

Dean rose to his feet slowly, unclasping the steel knife he always kept close by, fumbling open the vial of holy water in his pocket. The spectre folded its arms and gave him an indulgent smile, and Dean knew, he _knew_ that it would be hopeless, that such methods would have no effect on the thing whatsoever, because it could never be that simple, but determined that if he could do nothing else he would still go down fighting, and fighting for Sam, who lay there so destroyed and falling away where Dean could never reach him even as he stood there. Well, if you go, I go, little brother, Dean thought grimly-Sam would not die before he did.

….

Pain. Everything hurt, his whole body was like one giant scream, and as Sam regained consciousness he was stunned by the sheer force of the agony. He could not break it down to individual injuries-the whole world had turned into pain, that was all he knew, and he lay paralysed by it, unable to believe that it could be possible to still be alive and hurt like this. Dimly, with the last part of his mind that was not marvelling at the incredible intensity of the agony driving into him, he prayed to slip back into dark oblivion, just to get away, even to die, anything but this-

And then a voice, a voice he knew better than his own, quiet and indistinct and sarcastic, but so close to his heart it cut straight through the haze of pain: "…you underestimate me."

Dean? Dean was here? Sam struggled to process the idea-if Dean was here, maybe things were going to be okay. He fought to open his eyes-thought he had managed it-but he could not alleviate the darkness pressing in on him. Maybe there was blood in his eyes-maybe it was just dark in here. He took a breath and almost choked from the smoke that hung so heavily in the air.

Dean…

"You don't know what I am or how to deal with me…"

The spectre. The spectre that had cut him and burned him on the ceiling, like Jess…that had made Dean think he was going crazy…that was going to kill them both…Sam tried to lift his head to look around, to get his bearings, but the pain that zinged through his whole body at the movement was almost enough to make him scream out loud. Spectre. Dean didn't know what to do with them-he did. He had to help Dean. Had to…

"Dean-" he tried to call, but his voice came out a destroyed, barely audible croak. Dean was not even aware that he was conscious at all. Sam felt desperation take hold of his soul, a kind of panicked anger-he had to save Dean, Dean was going to get himself killed-

He heard a shout of anger, heard something heavy fall to the ground. A peal of soft, mocking laughter.

"Holy water. I had expected _something_ better from you, Dean Winchester." And in response Sam heard a ferocious, strangled curse that could only issue from his brother. Close. Very close by.

"Dean," he whispered. "Dean-you have to-"

"S'okay, Sammy," Dean snarled. "Just hold on." And Sam heard running footsteps, a wild creaking of floorboards, a rushing jet of something that could have been fire. The darkness was closing in, he could feel the pain sucking him down into nothingness, and he fought it with all his fading strength-he had to help Dean. Dean, who he could _hear_ getting thrown about the room, who judging from the cries of pain that seared Sam's mind, was not escaping unscathed. Quite suddenly there came a louder bang and Sam gasped, unable to scream, as something heavy landed half on top of him with a yell of shock.

"Sam," Dean breathed in his ear, voice slurred as if by blood, or a loose tooth. "Sam-I'm sorry-I can't-"

"It's _me_," Sam croaked with his last vestiges of strength. "Need…the blood…of a victim..."

"A victim?" Dean's voice had dropped low. "Sam, I'm its victim too by now…"

"Got…in my head…my blood, Dean…"

Dean, supporting himself on his elbows, bleeding from the mouth and the arm, suspecting that his left ankle might be broken, stared down at his brother. Sam's eyes were half-open and his voice so hoarse, so broken it was almost inaudible, but he was clearly alive, and putting all his life right then into speaking. Sam's blood can kill it? Dean thought in amazement. Well, there was enough of that around-but before he could so much as move to scoop a handful of his brother's blood from the various pools on the floor, the spectre had grabbed him from behind in hands of invisible iron and flung him hard across the room. Dean saw a rush of light and fire, and then an explosion of darkness-when he could see again it was to witness a scene that paralysed him with amazement.

Sam, leaning against the wall, had managed to rise to one knee, head hanging forwards, one arm cradled across his torn and bleeding middle, the horrific livid burns spiking across his arms and chest flung into terrifying evidence. The spectre was advancing on him, malice burning in its red eyes.

"It's been a fascinating game, Sam," it said pleasantly-surrounded by the flickering firelight and wreaths of smoke, it could have been walking out of hell itself, directly towards Sam, who could have knelt helpless and wounded in the path of the devil himself. Dean struggled to get to his feet, dizzy and dazed, the blood running into his eyes making it difficult to see, but it was impossible, he could not get there in time-"But I'm afraid it's time to go…" And its hand came up and slashed across Sam's chest again, spilling another flow of blood over the youth's ravaged body. Sam gritted his teeth.

"_Your_ time," he spat, and he lunged to his feet in one motion. Too weak to remain standing he used his falling momentum to crash towards the spirit. Sam simply fell through to the ground, to land with a groan and lie motionless, but the blood pouring out of him seemed to stick, hover in mid-air, lacing the grey, smokelike body with red swathes strings like paint-looking at it, Dean found it suddenly hard to believe that it could be blood, _Sam's blood_, at all. The spectre blinked, held out its arms as if to inspect itself, incredulous-then looked back at Sam.

"No," it hissed. "Impossible-"

And Dean flung an arm over his eyes as it imploded, shattering inwards in a column of blood and smoke, and was gone. Even as he looked back at Sam, even as he staggered to his feet at last the entire building gave a creaking, swaying groan and Dean knew that there was not much time. It was already nearly impossible to breathe, to see…he fell to his knees beside Sam, shaking his brother desperately.

"Sammy, Sammy _please_-"

Sam's bloody, torn face lifted towards him one final time. His hazel eyes were wide open and tearing from the smoke, but they stared right past Dean, into the inferno beyond.

"Dean," he rasped in a voice of pitiful calm. "Dean, I can't see anything."

"You will," Dean promised emptily, not even fully aware of what his brother had said, only of the urgency of the moment, body twisted by a racking cough that he fought through, spoke through, because he had to. "You will, Sammy, c'mon, help me out here…" The heat was becoming too intense-Dean was not even sweating any longer, his skin bone dry, leeched of all moisture, and touching Sam's skin was like touching hot iron. He gripped the youth under the arms and hauled him to his feet-Sam gave a kind of strangled moan of agony and Dean's heart seared within but he could not stop now. "I know, I know, keep going, hang in there…" He somehow pulled Sam's arm about his shoulder, supporting his little brother against his own body, and dragged him towards the door, a stumbling, desperate huddle, both of them coughing against the smoke, both blind now, and Dean only had time to see that the door was gone, obliterated behind a roaring torrent of flame, before the ground lurched beneath his feet and the floor just collapsed inwards beneath them, and everything disappeared as they plummeted together into the depths of the ruin.

**Okay-yes it is another cliffy. Yes, that makes about three in a row now. Sorry! This will…possibly…be the last one? But I couldn't end it there! Also, MysteryMadchen may notice that what I promised is now out there, and it will become still clearer next chapter…dun dun dun! Anyway, please review!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks for your reviews! Here's the new chapter!**

Chapter 9:

The fire had burned itself out fairly quickly after the building fell in, but that did not make it exactly safe: when paramedic Alex Croft jumped out of the ambulance he was aware that there would almost certainly be nothing for him to do. These houses had been empty for years and many were already scheduled for demolition. There was nobody to save.

The chief of the fire department came hurrying over to him at that moment, looking urgent. "Thank God you're here, we have a situation…"

Alex's face hardened, a characteristic sign of worry. "There were casualties?"

The fireman nodded. "Two men. We pulled them out from the rubble and I don't understand how they made it. One of them's been conscious but we've had to perform CPR on the other for about five minutes now…" Alex was already moving, waving his colleagues forward, towards the huddle of firemen a short distance away, clearly where the two injured men had been dragged. He pushed the crowds away, taking in the scene with practised alacrity: one man was sitting propped against a wall, covered in blood and soot and evidently barely hanging on to consciousness but apparently not in immediate danger, clearly fiercely focused on the fate of his companion, who lay utterly still, half concealed by the two firemen who were crouched over him, pumping air into his lungs and kneading his chest, just fighting to keep him alive. Alex and the other paramedics pushed them aside to continue: one tried to help the conscious man into the ambulance but he simply refused to budge from his companion's side. Alex himself took over chest compressions to this younger man, praying, begging a God he only believed in in moments of crisis for a spark of life, for a chance, but knowing that five minutes was getting on for too long without life, that hope was pitifully slim.

"Let me," the other man said hoarsely, leaning forwards. Alex shook his head.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have to trust me, I'm a professional. You're injured."

"Maybe he needs it to be me," the man said, half to himself, clearly more than a little delirious from smoke inhalation, but Alex felt the words strike a chord deep inside, oddly powerfully. "Who are you?" he asked, never taking his eyes off his patient's face, but the simple answer he heard was enough to open up an entire soul.

"I'm his brother."

Alex moved aside.

Dean bent over Sam's motionless, destroyed body, pressing down hard where his heartbeat should have responded, then again, again. He was dazed from the smoke as by some kind of drug, confused and jerky, his perceptions narrowed down to a needle-thin line, aware that Sammy was not breathing and that he quite simply could not accept that as fact in this world. And that Sam needed him, because it was his, Dean's job to take care of him, and a fine mess he had made of that so far, and if anyone could drag him back from the brink of death then it could only be Dean. The paramedics watched, silent and united in their hope, their support, their unspoken despair, and Dean felt a growing panic surging up within him as Sam still did not respond: "Come _on_, Sammy," he snarled to his little brother's bloody, soot-stained face. "God_damn_ you I am not letting you die on me, Sam, ya hear? You just _breathe_, okay, Sammy, breathe!"

And it was instantaneous: he felt a shuddering beat echo the motion of his hands, and Sam's body jerked violently as he sucked in a trembling gasp of air. Dean felt the breath rush back out of him, his strength fading as quickly as if had come, and he sagged back, a swift-thinking paramedic grabbing him before he could keel over onto the road. Others were bustling about Sam now, immobilising broken bones, fixing him up to an oxygen tank, but Dean could only gasp for air and stare with a kind of hungry, disbelieving relief at the tremors of breath shivering through his little brother's body, testament to his miraculously still-flickering life.

"You boys must have some kind of guardian angel," the paramedic supporting Dean muttered. "C'mon, let's get you in the ambulance…"

….

Dean refused to leave Sam's side in the ambulance and even when they reached the hospital fought to be allowed to sit through surgery with him. Here, however, his courageous nurse put her foot down:

"Look, sir, you're hurt, you're in shock and you need to be examined yourself. You'll only endanger your brother if you intrude on the sterile environment of the operating theatre and he's unconscious in any case and not even aware that you are here. You come with me and in a couple of hours when they're finished with him you can go right back. All right?"

Dean blinked at her tiredly but defiantly. He could see the sense in her words; he was just reluctant to let her perceive that. Defeated he watched Sam wheeled into the theatre, then turned back.

"So what now, Nurse…" he scanned her name badge. "Somers. Just you and me for a time."

She rolled her eyes. "This way. You're clearly delirious."

….

Dean opened his eyes to find himself staring up at a terrifyingly blank white ceiling. That's weird, he thought muzzily, used to the Impala ceiling facing him on waking, or the scrubby, chipped plaster paint of a motel room. Where was he? He closed his eyes again to dull the throbbing pain pulsing through his head, trying to decide, for starters, whether to try and work it out or just to go back to sleep.

A spectre. The fire. _Sammy_-

He sat bolt upright, swearing as his head twinged with pain. He was in a hospital room, in bed, dressed in green scrubs, and thank God not hooked up to any machines. He thought back-he remembered being taken into the examination room by that rather cute Nurse Somers, and then…ah. When it all started taking too long he had begun yelling and trying to get out, frantic to find out what was happening to Sam…and they must have sedated him to finish the examination. He grimaced-that was embarrassing.

"Ah, you're awake."

Dean jumped-he had thought that he was alone. He looked round now, to see a middle-aged woman dressed in a plain but smart suit rise from this chair in the corner and come towards him.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded, swinging his legs out of bed and standing up. He was a little unsteady, but he could walk and that was the main thing. One arm was pulled cross his chest in a sling-fortunately it wasn't his right, so he could still fight if he had to.

"My name is Detective Land," the woman said coolly. "I'm investigating the fire."

"Oh, uh, good work there, officer. D'you know where my brother is?"

"Your brother can wait, Mr…?"

Dean thought fast. "Richards. Dean Richards. And no, he can't…" He glanced around, spied the call button and pressed it. It was only moments before a woman he recognised as Nurse Somers entered the room and smiled to see him awake. "You called?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Where's Sam? How's he doing?"

An expression of unease crossed her face-enough to set Dean's heart jangling. "What? What is it? Is he okay?"

She came towards him tentatively, taking his arm and trying to push him down on the bed. He fought her, desperate now. "What the hell is it? What's wrong with Sammy?"

"Your brother's doctor can tell you better than me," she said quietly. "Your brother is not in good shape, Dean. You were both amazingly lucky to survive at all, but Sam…"

"_Tell_ me, dammit!"

She bit her lip. "Dean, can I just check you over and then I'll ask Sam's doctor if he can come and talk to you? I don't know everything…"

Dean gripped her wrist hard, forcing her to look at him. He could see the red imprint of his fingers on her skin and knew he must be hurting her, but he could not find it within himself to care. "No," he said icily, voice boiling with a barely contained fury. "You can get Sam's doctor right now, and then you can show me where you've hidden my brother, you hear? And if you don't then so help me I am gonna start throwing punches!"

Nurse Somers cast an uncertain glance at the detective behind Dean, then nodded. "Very well. Come this way…I'll take you to Sam's room. But you're going to have to be prepared for a shock. He only just got out of surgery."

Dean felt numb as he followed her out of his room and into the corridor. Everything seemed so familiar-he had seen too much of hospitals in his life, and the green linoleum and pristine white walls were like old friends: the stench of antiseptic settling in his senses as if it had never left. _Be prepared for a shock_. What exactly did that mean? What had happened to Sam? What was he going to see? And how could he just have got out of surgery-it had been hours since they had been brought in…as they walked, silent, he felt a growing sense of unreality settling over him, as if whatever nightmare lay at the end of this hall it would not be real, could not _be_, as if this was just a bad dream and the world just didn't work this way.

Nurse Somers stopped outside a room at the end of the hall and turned to Dean. "I'll go and find Dr Lucas," she said quietly. "Sam's in there. I'm…I'm sorry." And she turned away, to Dean's relief, leaving him to deal with the unknown horror alone.

As he dealt with every horror alone, alone but for Sam.

The room was a small, the walls white as ever, a small window closed tight against the faint grey drizzle outside, spattering the glass with half-hearted raindrops. It contained only one bed, but the person lying in it was almost unrecognisable. Dean froze by the door, momentarily certain that he had entered the wrong room, his sense of the unreality of the situation dissipating like smoke.

But it was not the wrong room.

Sam lay still as a corpse, his face obscured by a breathing mask and a large white bandage across one cheek: another was wound around his head pressing his untidy hair against his sweaty forehead, and both were slightly stained with blood. Another tube was fixed under his nose. His chest was bare, clearly for the sake of the livid burns that were seared across his skin, red and black and already flaking and scarring, as if his chest and upper arms had been put through a mangle. His torso was concealed by quantities of white bandage, though Dean could glimpse the black stitching holding his brother's flesh together through the thinner patches. One of his legs was elevated in a kind of sling hanging from the ceiling, and covered entirely by a plaster cast. Little suction cups were positioned around the burns on his chest, measuring his heart rate, the flickering, too fast patterns showing up on a black screen to the side of the bed. Dean just stood there and stared at the devastation of his little brother, feeling his heart breaking.

"Oh God, Sammy-" The words broke from his lips without volition, choked and desperate as a prayer.

"Dean Richards?" came a voice from behind, breaking him from his stunned horror. He turned to see a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a white coat just closing the door behind him; his face was regular and grave, eyes wide and calm, but in this instance troubled as well.

"That's me," Dean said, his voice a little tight. "Dr Lucas?"

The doctor nodded and drew closer, scanning the readings from the screens placed around Sam's bed. "No change," he muttered to himself, and then turned to Dean, who could only stare at him in frantic, wordless query.

"I'm sure you can see the seriousness of Sam's situation," Dr Lucas said softly. Dean gave a kind of mirthless, barked laugh, a sound of utter despair. "Just tell me how bad it is, plain English. And don't sugar-coat it."

"Well-" Dr Lucas took a breath. "Will you sit down?"

"No."

"As you wish. Sam sustained very serious injuries even before the fire, as I'm sure you know. There were serious lacerations to his chest and stomach; no vital organs had been punctured, fortunately, but the quantity of blood he had lost was extremely dangerous. There were also three broken ribs, and a fourth I believe must have been cracked while he was being given chest compressions to restart his heart. He had taken a nasty blow to the head as well: the skull was not cracked but there is some swelling and we won't know the full extent of the damage done until he wakes up." He paused. "Are you all right, Mr Richards?"

Dean nodded, speechless.

"During the fire Sam sustained serious second degree burns, very deep, which we fear could develop into third degree. You were not as badly burned, but there'll be time for the full story later. There are also difficulties with severe smoke inhalation: both of you will probably experience trouble breathing for several weeks, and that is if there are no added complications with the actual toxic chemicals in his-and your-bloodstream. We estimate that Sam must have been entirely without oxygen for several minutes, not counting the time when you and the paramedics gave him CPR, so you understand there could also be some brain damage. When the building collapsed…well, I don't know how you two survived at all."

"We fell through to the lower floor," Dean managed to croak. "It caught us for a while. When the whole thing came down I managed to hang on to a beam and I anchored Sammy…we fell afterwards and then a huge chunk of concrete trapped us in the rubble…"

"Well, that concrete would have protected you from any more falling masonry, as well as to some extent the flames," Dr Lucas said. "But it is still miraculous. During the fall Sam's left leg was crushed, and we have tried to set it but we can't be sure that it will heal. His arm was also broken, but it is not as serious…In addition to the burns on his leg we are heaving to discuss the possibility that it may need to be amputated, or Sam could develop a blood infection which would kill him for sure."

Dean did sit down then-crumpled onto a chair beside Sam's bed and covered his face with his hands. It was too much. Sam's leg amputated? Brain damage? He could not speak-sat there fighting tears as the worst kind of panic welled up inside, struggling to control himself.

"These are all hypotheses at the moment," Dr Lucas said quietly. "But real possibilities. I am sorry, Mr Richards, but your brother's chances of survival are extremely small. You should be prepared…"

"_No_," Dean snapped. "No, he is not going to die, you get me? He is _not_. He wouldn't _dare_." He turned to Sam then, reaching out, gently stroking his fingers across the small portion of Sam's face that was visible, the delicacy of the gesture contrasting starkly with the desperate harshness of his words. "You understand, Sammy? If you die on me I will kill you myself, you hear? You are not leaving me again. I mean that, okay? So snap out of it and you fight, okay, you _fight_!"

…

It was three more hours before Sam even showed a sign of life: three hours which Dean spent fixed to his side, ignoring the detective who kept trying to make him give a statement, or the doctors and nurses who told him he should rest. He remained sitting beside Sam's bed, carding his fingers through the bloody, sweaty chestnut hair, sometimes babbling to his unresponsive little brother about whatever came into his head, sometimes a plea to keep fighting, sometimes just random, disconnected words blurted out solely because he had to _somehow_ believe that Sam could hear him. At other times he simply sat in shocked silence, willing his little brother to come back to him.

Night had fallen and it was nearing midnight when Sam suddenly stirred restlessly, turning his head on the pillow. Dean jerked into alertness, heart leaping. "Sam. Sammy, can you hear me? Sam?"

Sam's fists clenched tightly and he gave a small, pain-filled moan, and then suddenly his eyes were open and he was struggling with the oxygen mask, choking on the tube snaking down his throat, his whole body trembling with pain, fighting to tear it away. Dean grabbed his hands, trying vainly to still him. "No, Sam, you need it right now to help you breathe…Sam! Easy!" Panicking he jammed his hand on the call button, torn apart inside seeing his little brother so tortured. "Sammy please, just relax…just take it easy…it's helping you…please, Sam, it's me, it's Dean…"

Suddenly Sam fell still, his breath coming in harsh, painful gasps. His eyes were still open, staring fixedly at the ceiling, and tremors ripped through his whole body. "Dean?" he whispered in a mere thread of a voice. "Dean…hurts…can't…" And he convulsed into a racking cough that doubled up his body, and Dean saw the tears stream from his eyes as the movement aggravated his injuries. He got an arm around Sam's shoulders, easing him down on the pillows, helping him to sip at the water from a glass on the bedside table. Finally the coughing passed, and Dean felt Sam relax in his arms, shivering violently. "See, you're gonna be okay now, little bro," Dean said, trying to smile. "Easy now, easy…"

"Dean-" came Sam's broken voice. "That you?"

"Yeah, it's me, I'm right here."

And then the terror in Sam's tone, the rising panic: "Dean-I can't see you-I can't see anything-"

Dean stared at him. "What?"

Tears spilled over Sam's cheeks and anguish ripped into his face. "Can't see…anything…"

At that moment Dr Lucas came hurrying into the room, stopping short as he saw Sam awake, but even as he entered the drugs still in Sam's bloodstream and the exhaustion and exertion of his ordeal were already dragging him down, and he blacked out once more in Dean's arms before the doctor's eyes. Dean looked up at the doctor with a kind of mute, desperate appeal.

"He said he couldn't see," he said brokenly. "Doctor-why can't he see?"

Dr Lucas looked troubled, but he could only shrug his shoulders. "I don't know, Mr Richards. I'll run some tests, but I don't know."

**Re-reading this there was a lot of pain in this chapter…hope it's not too traumatic for you guys! Please let me know what you think!**


	10. Chapter 10

**I was going to post this last night but reaised just now I only uploaded the document and forgot to add the chapter. Sorry!**

**A lot of the medical stuff in this chapter was just guesswork and I don't have much idea if there's any validity to it. So you are warned…**

Chapter 10:

"So you're saying that Sam was snatched by some random psycho who took him up there in the attic and tortured him before taking off and setting the building on fire?" Detective Land said, a trace of scepticism in her voice. "And you…sensed the psychic vibrations of the incident and followed?"

"Ah…no, you misunderstand," Dean said, mentally cursing her and all cops straight to hell. "This guy took _both_ of us up there, but he didn't lay into me like he did Sammy, don't know why. When he left I managed to get free and tried to get Sam out, but by then the place was already coming down."

"I see." She made a note on her clipboard. "And you've no idea where this random psycho is now?"

"Nope," Dean said.

"Do you know who he was?"

"How should I know? He hit us and dragged us off, I've no idea why!" He was feeling indignant about her disbelieving his fabricated story, he realised: that was kind of ironic.

"Very well." She looked up from her clipboard, eyes cool. It was the day after he and Sam had been brought in, and Dr Lucas had told Dean that while he ran some scans on Sam to try and find out why he apparently could not see, the best thing he could do was give his statement to the detective in his own office. Annoyed and panicky over Sam's condition, Dean had nonetheless found himself agreeing-he was now really wishing that he had pleaded that he was still in too much pain.

"So I should be looking for some kind of insane pyromaniac who picks his victims at complete random and who's now disappeared into thin air."

Dean had to admit that it didn't sound too promising. "Uh…yeah."

"How about a description of this guy? Do you remember what he looked like?"

Dean pretended to think about it. "Uh…not really. It's all a bit of a blur."

She was clearly losing her patience. "No useful details at all?"

Dean shrugged. "You know as much as I do, lady."

She set her clipboard aside and leaned forwards, surveying him with eagle-sharp blue eyes. "You know, Dean, this all sounds a little bit _too_ contrived."

Does it really? Dean thought. Jeez…

"And you have to realise what this looks like. Sam was clearly tortured by somebody before the fire, and you remain the only other person connected with the whole incident, thus the only suspect we have." She sat up straighter, remorseless as he spluttered. "Without Sam having fully regained consciousness, we only have your word for it that you're even his brother at all."

Dean flared. "Are you nuts?" he demanded. "Are you suggesting _I_ did that to Sammy?"

"It is, I'm afraid, the most likely scenario I can think of," she pointed out. "I'm not going to arrest you, Mr Richards, but you should consider yourself under heavy suspicion until more evidence comes up."

It was fortunate that at that moment Dr Lucas came in, for by then Dean was actually contemplating breaking his lifelong record of never having hit a woman, at least not a human one. The doctor paused at the door, startled to see them glaring at each other as if about to launch into battle.

"Mr Richards…I have the results of your brother's scans."

Dean shot to his feet. "Excellent."

"Detective, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to step outside?" Dr Lucas said politely. "It's best if I can talk with Mr Richards alone."

Detective Land rose fluidly, tossing back her dead-straight blonde hair. "Very well, doctor," she agreed courteously. "We can finish up some other time." She swanned out, leaving the doctor to take her vacated seat and gesture for Dean to sit down once more.

"We've run the scans," he said without preamble, "And the results are, I'm afraid, quite inconclusive. The swelling near Sam's brain seems to be growing smaller, which is a positive change, but there is nothing else to indicate why he would be unable to see. He was hit on the head, you say-quite honestly I think it must be that causing this. It is very common after a head injury to suffer difficulty with vision."

"So it's only temporary?" Dean said swiftly, feeling a new hope dawning. The doctor shook his head.

"I can't be certain. We have to give it time and I'll need to talk to Sam about exactly what he is experiencing when he wakes up. But I really can't tell you any more." He sighed. "Dean, this is not the most pressing difficulty, you know. I still can't guarantee that your brother will survive at all."

"I know you can't," Dean said quietly. "But he will. He'll be okay. He has to be."

…

Sam's fever was rising: it had reached 103 degrees and showed no signs of decreasing. He was not sleeping easily, either: clearly tormented by nightmares, tossing his head on the pillow, face streaked with sweat. Dr Lucas had been back to change the dressings on his burns, and the dismay on his face as he did so had not encouraged Dean much.

"Is it getting worse?" he demanded. The doctor nodded.

"He may well require a skin graft…what really worries me is his leg. The bones are not healing."

Dean felt his heart seize up. Amputation-could that too become a reality? The doctor seemed to read the question in his eyes.

"I can't be sure yet," was all he could say.

Sam seemed to be hovering in a state between life and death, in perpetual uncertainty, where there could be no certain future. Dean was getting sick of it-it terrified him. Sam _could_ have his leg taken off, _could_ suffer brain damage, _could_ be blind for the rest of his life, _could_ even die-and they could not be sure about any of it, and it was killing him.

Many times over the course of that endless day Dean saw Sam's breathing suddenly stop, hitch, only to fall back into rhythm with the oxygen mask. He saw the bandages have to be changed again and again, as the incisions in his chest and stomach would not stop bleeding. The doctor put Sam on a stronger course of antibiotics but was powerless to bring down his fever. He did not wake that day. The next, Dean had to watch Sam taken away for them to operate and get a skin graft to try and heal over the livid burns on his chest: Dean did not see him for over twenty-four hours, as he had to be kept in a sterile ward while the graft took hold; he used the time to check himself out, saying that he would pay when he returned, to return to their motel and get some proper clothes, before returning to the hospital and using a fake credit card under the name of Dean Richards to pay for his own treatment. Nurse Somers found him and forced him to eat a plastic-tasting sandwich from the hospital cafeteria. The rest of the day he spent pacing up and down the hospital corridors, desperately awaiting some news, _any_ news, of Sam.

At last he spied Dr Lucas striding towards him, looking weary. Dean half-ran to him and the doctor raised his hands as if in defence. "Before you ask," he said, warding off the torrent of questions he could see brimming in the younger man's eyes, "He's all right. The skin graft held and I think we're going to be able to handle the burns now."

"So where is he? Is he awake?" Then suddenly he realised exactly how inconclusive the doctor's appraisal of Sam's condition had actually been. "Wait-so the burns are dealt with. What about everything else?"

Dr Lucas spread his hands helplessly. "I really can't say. I'm sorry, Dean. Your brother was seriously injured and there is just so much for him to deal with. There's little more we can do at this point except keep an eye on him."

Dean struggled not to hit the doctor: it wasn't _his_ fault that Sam was in such dire straits, if anyone's it was Dean's own, but he just needed to take his anger out on something, _anything_, right then. "And what about…you said you might have to amputate-you said-" He could barely force the words out. Dr Lucas looked grave.

"There do appear to be early signs of blood poisoning around the break and I doubt the bone will ever fully heal. I have to tell you that I'm seriously considering an amputation, but it's a drastic step to take and one we won't sanction unless it is absolutely necessary."

Dean nodded. There was nothing more to say.

"Your brother should be coming round from the anaesthetic soon," Dr Lucas told him quietly. "He's back in his old room, if you would like to go to him."

Dean walked away without another word, keeping his head low to conceal his face, but Dr Lucas knew better than to be offended. He had barely known these two strangers three days, but already he could tell that the older brother would open up like this, show his emotions like this, with nobody but Sam, and that they were clearly intensely bonded. If Sam did not survive, Dr Lucas did not like to imagine what would happen to Dean. And with every passing hour that kind of dread only proved to have more reasons to manifest-Sam's condition was indeed dire.

…..

Dean took a deep breath, more to ready himself for the possibility of failure than anything else, and pressed the call button, holding the phone to his ear. Sam was still unconscious across the room, and his hope was draining fast out of him like water. It was time to take that drastic step, and try to call their father.

Voicemail. The now so-familiar words tore gaping chasms in Dean's heart, but he forced himself to wait for the beep and speak calmly, as he had so many millions of times before. He imagined every one of those messages accumulating, piling up one after the other-imagined the phone ringing endlessly, emptily beside his father's mangled corpse, or worse still John picking up the phone, registering who was calling, and turning away.

"Dad-" His voice caught. "Dad, I really need you to call. It's Sam-he's in hospital-he…he might be…" He broke off again, struggling to control himself, his gaze drifting inorexably back to Sam's motionless, destroyed body in the bed. "Dad, please." He felt the hot tears in his eyes now, felt the hard fists of pain squeezing around his heart, his soul. "Dad…they say there's not…not much hope. You, uh…you need to get here, if you can." He reeled off the address of the hospital, grateful for something unemotional to say. "And uh, just so you know-it was a spectre. Don't know if you know about them. I didn't. Uh-yeah." He took a deep breath. "Please, dad. Just get here, okay? Or…or at least…call." He snapped the phone closed, doubling over beside the window, shaking with sobs. This was not right. It was so wrong it was killing him. He couldn't lose Sam, he couldn't…but his fierce determination that his brother would survive was flickering like a dying candle, growing weaker by the minute. Somehow it was no longer enough for him to believe in it. And the realisation that he might not even have his father just broke him.

When finally he had regained control he strode back over to Sam's bed and dropped back into the hard plastic chair beside it, and took up his vigil once more.

_Sam knew that he was drifting somewhere far away from the world, that this was not his natural state, but he was quite content to let it go on as long as possible. His memories were vague and clouded, but he could feel pain, hovering just above his awareness-a fierce and horrific pain he had no wish to encounter again. There did not seem to be much point in doing anything but allowing himself to slip away._

_"Sam."_

_He tried to ignore the voice. It did not seem to matter._

_"Sam?"_

_He opened his eyes, looked around. He could see nothing but an echoing, desolate whiteness, unbroken but for the person gliding towards him. She did not walk-she seemed rather to float across the mist as across foam-tipped ocean waves, the lacy white hem of her nightdress stroking the cloudy ground with every movement. She was flawless, so beautiful she took his breath away, with her face like a delicate rosebud and her clear, shining blue eyes, and that cascade of golden curls he could remember carding his fingers through, feeling every silky, lustrous wave slip over his hands, could remember kissing deeply, inhaling the scent of flowers that seemed to pervade her whole world._

_"Jess?"_

_She smiled, held out one slender hand to take his. "Sam."_

_And then he saw it-the spreading vivid red of blood staining the middle of her nightdress: here, where everything was so pure, so pristine white and clear, it was like a sacrilege of the highest order, a perversion, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He took her other hand and suddenly she collapsed in his arms: he fell to one knee, desperately shaking her limp, so-light body, the ocean of blood spreading wider and wider. "Jess. Jess, come on!"_

_Her eyes snapped open-every trace of blue was gone. Instead he saw a burning, blazing yellow, the fearsome malicious yellow of some of his earliest nightmares, and he jerked away with a cry. "Why didn't you save me, Sam?" Jessica's voice asked liltingly, as she lifted her lovely head and shook out the bloodstained hair, those unblinking yellow eyes boring into Sam all the while. "Why did you let me die?"_

_"I…I tried," he said desperately. "Jess-please-"_

_"You know what it feels like now," she went on. "You know how it hurts. It's your fault, Sam, your fault it was done to me. Would you wish anyone to go through what you did? Anyone? It's what you did to me, Sam! Why are you alive and me dead? Do you deserve to live more than I do? You, who let me die?" Her voice had risen to a shriek-she rose before him, soaked in gore, those eyes shining like diamonds, dead diamonds. He yelled in shock, throwing himself backwards-_

Suddenly pain, driving agony. He could not breathe-something was caught in his throat, strangling him. He was bound fast, held by twisting ropes and his whole body was on fire. He struggled desperately, eyes screwed tight shut-hands gripped him, bearing him down. Voices he did not recognise. His lungs burned with every laboured breath-his body jerked in a racking cough and he tasted blood, filling his mouth and choking him, like before, like with Jessica, or had that just been another nightmare? He no longer knew. People were shouting at him, he was confused and terrified, could make no sense of any of it. "Take it easy! Just relax, it's okay!" "We're gonna have to put him under again-" And then, blessedly, a fragment of familiarity, a voice he knew. "Back off dammit, give him space. Sammy, it's me, Dean. Can you hear me?"

Exhausted, crying with pain, having reached the end of his strength, Sam sagged back, trembling, the adrenaline draining out of him at the mere sound of his brother's voice, the one thing he trusted instinctively, in his wildest hours. "Dean?" he gasped. "Dean-where am I? What's…"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. Easy there, little bro. Breathe easy now, okay? It's all right, you're safe, you're in hospital. Just breathe, Sammy…" And he could feel Dean's hands stroking his hair out of his eyes, resting gently on his shoulder to still him. His throat felt raw, he could taste blood and smoke. "What…what happened?"

"Uh-you don't remember?"

Sam opened his eyes at last, surprised, and blinked-nothing. He started and the first flickerings of panic began to flower. Darkness pressed in on him-he raised his hand to rub his eyes but it made no difference.

"Dean-"

"Uh-yeah. You, uh, you still can't see?" Dean sounded afraid but was clearly trying to reassure him, putting on a kind of false bravado. "Well, that's nothing to worry about. You hit your head pretty hard and according to your doc people often lose their sight for a while after that, but you're gonna be fine…"

"Yeah?" Sam was not convinced, but at that moment, his initial panic fading, he was once again aware of the searing pain biting into every other part of his body. He doubled over as a spike of agony jetted through his stomach, only to find that the movement made it worse and again his body twisted with that horrible grating cough. He could hear a flurry of movement, Dean's voice raised in anger: "For God's sake, can't you give him some kind of medication?" Other voices, that Sam was too confused to distinguish, murmuring responses. He gritted his teeth, struggling not to scream out, tears leaking from his closed eyelids. And then an intense coldness stealing through his veins and he felt himself falling once more, drifting away into darkness.

Dean did not look up at the doctor and nurses crowding around Sam's bed as his little brother faded back into unconsciousness. He did not want them to see the panic and the anguish in his eyes.

**I have no idea what a skin graft entails, or how long it might take. Anyone who knows better than me, feel free to point it out! I am not being very nice to Sammy, am I… plus, a lot more happens next chapter, this one having been mostly angst, and I nearly have that one ready... Reviews are inspiration!**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11:

Ten Days Later:

Detective Land frowned down at her computer screen, her mind whirring. She had not been able to have another proper conversation with Dean Richards for over a week now, and while in the absence of any further proof she had not been able to actually arrest him she still considered him the most likely perpetrator of the crime, and it infuriated her to think of him walking free after committing such atrocities.

She had spoken briefly with Sam, too, two days previously, when he was reliably conscious for more than a few seconds at a time. It had not been a helpful conversation: he had supported Dean's story in every way and confirmed that he was his brother. She just quite simply did not believe them: she had a gut feeling that something was wrong, and in her line of work she had learned to trust such feelings. Sam's testimony in particular seemed to support this: to be sure, he was still recovering and very weak, and no doubt traumatised by his ordeal. He had barely survived at all. But he had been so wary, spoken so quietly, so haltingly, forever glancing around for Dean, though of course it was hopeless behind his blindfold. She just did not trust this whole situation.

Which was why she had decided to check up on them. And now it turned out that Dean and Sam Richards did not exist, that there was no record of them anywhere, and that the credit card Dean had used to pay for their treatment was false.

She got to her feet. Asking them to come quietly was the first step.

…

"Well, Sam, I have to say you've done better than any of us expected," Dr Lucas told the silent young man before him, trying to sound cheerful. Five days ago Sam's fever had peaked and for an entire night Dr Lucas-not to mention Dean-had been convinced that he would not make it. But by the morning the crisis had passed and Sam had been sleeping more or less naturally, his body having fought off the infection in his leg by itself: the doctor had been able to tell Dean that amputation was not going to be necessary.

The next stage had been a further set of scans and operations on his head to try and ascertain why he still could not see. Dr Lucas had kept on reassuring the brothers that this was most likely a temporary deficiency, though with less and less conviction with every passing day, and three days ago he had performed a very specialised surgery on Sam's eyes-it was since then that he had been wearing the blindfold, to prevent inflammation.

"Guess you just couldn't bear to leave me to deal with all these hot nurses alone?" Dean quipped weakly. It seemed sometimes like all his life he had been putting on a game face for Sammy, because if he broke down his brother would just crumble. Certainly now he had never done anything harder: Sam may have survived, but now that the initial crisis was over all Dean could think about was how his little brother couldn't even see, and it was his fault, all entirely his fault. He could have listened to what Sam was telling him about the spirit-should have listened, should have been less arrogant and sure that he was right, should never have forced Sam to see that shrink and pushed him out on his own for those terrible last instants-should have been able to save him.

And now look at what had happened.

Sam turned to him, acknowledging the joke, but he did not smile. He had barely spoken since the crisis had passed: aside from that conversation with the detective, Dean could not remember more than half a dozen words his brother had uttered. Nor had he smiled: he seemed locked into his own world, shrunk away from reality simply because it hurt too much. It tore Dean apart to see it, to realise that this was the only way Sam thought he could survive the ruin that had become his life, and that there was nothing he could do: for once, there was no way to protect Sammy from this horror.

Dr Lucas leaned forwards now to ease the blindfold away from Sam's face. He was fairly sure he knew what they would find: the scans had shown up nothing, and this seemed all set to be yet another random occurrence, an effect of a blow to the head that no-one could explain and no-one could deal with. It was common enough, and tragic enough. Sure enough, when the fold of black fabric was removed from Sam's face, Dean could see him blinking, see his breath catch as those fragile hopes crumbled, see his sudden desperate struggle not to break right then and there, in front of them. He moved fast.

"Hey, doc, you think you could give us a few minutes?" Dr Lucas nodded wordlessly and backtracked silently out of the room: Dean moved forwards and almost instinctively gripped Sam around the shoulders. Sam's hands came up to his face to hide it: he had always hated anyone to see him cry.

"Hey, hey, Sammy, it's okay, it's not the end, it's okay…"

No reply from Sam, but Dean felt his body convulse on a choked sob. He gritted his teeth, feeling his heart breaking for the pain inside his little brother. "Sam, there's still a chance, your sight could just come back on it's own, you can't give up hope…"

"Dean," came Sam's muffled, tight voice. "Dean, I'm not…not gonna see again…have to…_accept_ that…" His words caught and Dean felt him shudder, deep inside, with an intense and desperate agony. He had no more words: he could only sit there with Sam crying silently in his arms, helpless and bitterly alone. Sometimes, when you were a hunter, things went badly and you lost something. It was a risk they were all used to taking. But that didn't mean it couldn't destroy you when it finally happened-or when it happened to the person you cared about most in the world.

…

"Detective, I really don't think you should go in there right now," Dr Lucas told her, standing square in front of the door to Sam's room like a castle guard defending his keep. "The boy isn't going to see again, you need to give them some time."

Detective Land was impassive. "That's as may be, doctor, but this Dean has broken the law and I'm going to have to take him for questioning."

"Yes, I understand that," Dr Lucas told her. "But they're dealing with a crisis. I don't know how Sam's going to deal with it, it's a huge blow. He needs his brother right now."

But her eyes were steely, inhuman. "Move aside, doctor."

Dean glanced up as the door burst open, expecting it to be Dr Lucas, but when he saw the detective he rose to his feet. Sam did not move from his huddled curl on the bed, hands still pressed against his face-it was as if he just did not care.

"Something wrong, detective?"

"There might be, Mr _Richards_," she said calmly. "Maybe we could step outside for a minute?"

Dean glanced down at Sam, then shook his head. "Whatever it is, you might as well tell us now."

"Maybe you could explain how you two apparently don't exist, then?"

Dean cursed silently. These things picked their _moments_…

"What makes you say that?" he demanded, playing for time, thinking fast. Whenever he had been in this situation before he had been able to run, to get out fast, avoid the law, but that wasn't an option right now, Sam was too weak to handle a prison break, they had no time…

"You apparently were never born, is what I mean," Detective Land stated. "And incidentally, your credit card faces similar doubt."

Well, that did it. He was going to have to get Sam out of here now, there was nothing else for it. But how was he going to do that?

"All that matters now," she went on, "Is whether you're going to come quietly or if I'm going to have to use force. Your _brother_ I think can stay here, I imagine you're the real guilty party."

Why did everyone think that? Dean wondered in faint indignation. It was probably Sammy's puppy dog eyes, just making it impossible for anyone to mistrust him…thinking about Sam's eyes hurt. He raised his hands defensively.

"Okay, lady. I'll come with you, but my brother's just had a helluva shock and I need to be with him. Can't you give me five minutes to sort this out?" She looked dubious. "Please. Don't you know what it's like to have a brother?"

Something flickered in her eyes, a softening. Wow, thought Dean. Maybe she is human after all. She nodded.

"Five minutes," she said. "No more. I'll be outside the door the entire time." And she turned and marched out, slamming the door after her. Dean turned back to Sam, mind buzzing with urgency.

"Sammy, we're gonna have to get outa here somehow, okay? You okay? Damn-" He had come up against a brick wall. Sam couldn't even walk. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, trying to think, to reason. Nothing. At that moment Sam raised his head, mouth tightening in determination.

"Is there a window in here?" he asked hoarsely. Dean glanced to the side.

"Yeah."

"How high?"

Dean went to check. "Two storeys up. But you'll never make it, with your leg…"

Sam nodded, took a deep, steadying breath. "Go," he rasped. "Go, Dean, get outa here. They don't suspect me, remember?"

Dean stood motionless as a kind of panic flowered within, rising fast to rage. "No," he said firmly. "No way, Sammy, I am not leaving you here!"

"It's the only way," Sam returned angrily. "I can't run, there's no chance you'll escape if you've got me to look after. I'll get out later and I'll find you. But you need to go now or you're gonna end up in jail."

Dean strode back to the bed and grabbed Sam's arm. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "Sam, you won't be able to find me. You can't _see_!"

Sam screwed his eyes tight closed for the space of one second. "I know," he whispered. "But I'll be okay for a few days yet. You don't have any time. Please, Dean-" His eyes widened as if he could really see his big brother, pleading. "This way we can both make it out. I'll…I'll be okay, Dean. I promise."

Dean scowled to hide his anguish-he knew that Sam was right, that this was the only way, but it killed him to do it, went against every one of his instincts. To leave Sam to the cops, to abandon him after such an ordeal, sightless and helpless and injured-it was the direct antithesis of his personality, of his _role_ in the world. He couldn't do it. He couldn't.

But if it was the only way…

"I am coming back for you, you understand?" he snarled into Sam's face. "I am coming back, and you had damn well better be okay, because if you get sick again or if anything else goes wrong with your freaky body I am going to kick your scrawny ass, you hear me? You hear me, Sammy?"

"It's Sam," Sam reminded him softly. "I'll be okay." His voice was quiet, catching on every word: Dean only hoped it was the smoke inhalation and not because he was fighting the tears. He stood up, hating himself, hating the world that made this necessary, hating the nobility and stupid courage that burned inside Sam-if only Sam would cry and plead with him to stay, not to leave him, be a coward or a child instead of who he was, and then Dean could do what seemed right to him. But no. "You take care of yourself, b*tch," he ordered.

"You too, jerk."

Dean went to the window, rolled it up and looked out. There was a handy bush positioned just beneath it, making the jump easy. He silently prayed he wouldn't break his ankle, swung his legs over the sill and cast one final glance at Sam. The kid was turned towards the open window, maybe judging the direction of his brother's exit-_abandonment_-by feeling the wind on his face.

"Get a move on," Sam said.

"Make sure your ass is still here when I get back," Dean returned, and jumped.

…

Dean ducked out of the hospital parking lot and headed for a patch of dark trees across the road, diving into the shadows and making his way on from there. He had parked the Impala two streets away, out of an old automatic precaution-they had a lot of those, in their family, although apparently not quite enough-and it only took him a few minutes to reach it. He got into the driver's seat and jammed the keys into the ignition, fighting not to look at the empty passenger seat where Sam should have been, if everything was right.

"I'm coming back for you, little b*tch," he muttered, and feeling as if another body moved his, he started the engine and eased the car out onto the open road.

He drove non-stop for four hours, until he had long passed the state boundary, thus far having met with no pursuit, before stopping in a forest track, pulling over and just sitting there in the driver's seat, head leaning on the wheel, unable to believe how badly he had screwed up, and how horribly wrong everything had gone. How Sam was suffering, endlessly suffering, blind and alone, for his mistakes.

**Okay before anyone yells at me, what other way could they have done it? And Dean will be back, I promise, really really soon…I know nobody's going to like that he left Sam but it's not for long. You'll find out how Sam will deal with all this in the next chapter which I will try to get up tomorrow or the next day…please review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**I have a chapter count for you now, if anyone is interested, this story will be 18 chapters long and since I've almost finished writing it I'll be able to post much more frequently now… **

**Warning: This chapter is kind of depressing…and not very much happens…**

Chapter 12:

Sam sat there hunched on the bed, arms wrapped around his knees, staring fixedly down at nothing. And _nothing_ was all there was to see, utter nothing: all there was around him was darkness, a faintly pulsing, empty darkness, like the inside of a grave. It was like being buried alive. He waited: five minutes must be nearly gone. He tried to breathe deeply in preparation for the ordeal ahead, the pain and the confusion, but it was impossible to be _sure_, impossible to relax-he would just have to take it as it came. _He_ did not matter any more-he was blind and disabled and useless. Dean had to make it out, no matter what. Dean was more important. Sam just had nothing to live _for_.

He heard the door bang open, heard the sound of high-heeled boots clicking their way inside-stopping short. He braced himself.

"Sam?" came Detective Land's strident, angry tones. "Sam, where's Dean?"

Sam took a breath. "I don't know," he said hoarsely. And it was the truth, to be strictly honest. He had no idea where Dean might be now.

"Don't you try to lie to me!" she snapped. "Where is he? Where did he go?"

"He's just gone," Sam told her quietly. "I don't know where."

"Why would he go and leave you here?"

Sam did not answer. He heard her blow out a long, frustrated breath, then the sound of her footsteps clicking out of the room again. Her voice echoed back, clattering rapidly, apparently on her cellphone: "…possible arsonist escaped the hospital, got his brother here but I'm going to need backup…might be going by the name of Dean Richards…"

Sam allowed himself to slump back against his pillows. Dean should be able to get away-now there was nothing left to fight for. He closed his eyes, not that it made any difference, and allowed a single tear to leak out and ease its way down his cheek. His life was already over.

The detective was back before too long, and clearly furious, but Sam was protected by the sheer and impenetrable armour of simply not caring what happened to him, having nothing left to lose. She sat beside the bed, and rapped out her questions: he answered monosyllabically, quietly.

"So what exactly is your real name, and his?"

"What he said."

"So why does Sam Richards not exist in our records?"

"I don't know."

"Which of you ordered a fake credit card?"

"We didn't know it was fake."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"If you want to."

"Where could your brother be now?"

"I don't know."

"Where do you live?"

A shrug.

"Well, where?"

"We travel around a lot…"

"Is he even really your brother?"

"Yeah."

"What really happened in that fire?"

"What Dean said happened."

She paused then. "Sam, you do realise that your brother is now a fugitive of justice, and you could be facing trial as his accomplice?"

He sighed inwardly. She should make up her mind about whether he was Dean's victim or his partner in crime.

"I know."

She left soon after that, surmising correctly that little was to be gleaned by interrogating him, leaving him alone in his own private darkness. He didn't care: he closed his eyes and tried to sleep-for a few moments he managed to drop off but there waiting right behind his eyelids were _memories_, the first things he had seen at all in days-nightmares, the only kind of vision left to him. Jessica loomed from the shadows of his imagination, smiling and bleeding, sometimes yellow-eyed, and the spectre sliced him open and Dean was walking away down a long winding road, and Sam tried to call to him but found his voice did not work, tried to run after him but the road crumpled up and tripped him-he fell hard and when he looked up again the whole world had gone dark, and he could hear howling, inhuman voices hissing his name in desperate hunger…

He jerked awake, shaking, to the sound of someone entering his room once more. Two people, he thought, judging by their footsteps: he frowned. Who were they?

"Sam Richards?" It was a man's voice, unfamiliar and gravelly. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's all right."

"Uh…okay…sure…" Still bewildered and trembling from the horrors of the night, Sam struggled to concentrate. There was nothing these people could do to him-so long as Dean was safe nothing else mattered.

"I'm Detective Arnold, and I'm helping Detective Land with this case. I thought you might be interested in knowing that we've caught your brother, and he's confessed everything."

Sam could have laughed. _Of course_ they'd caught Dean. This was the oldest trick in the book, and he could play along as well as anyone. He tried to conceal his derision.

"But there was nothing to confess."

"No?"

"No."

"Sam, let me be quite clear on this. If you lie to us then you will be guilty of inhibiting the law, and that is an punishable offence."

"I'm not lying."

"I told you, Dean told us everything."

"What did he tell you?"

Silence.

"I'm told that you're not going to see again, Sam."

He had not thought it could hurt that much, someone finally slamming that terrible truth into him like a dagger. He gasped as if struck; suddenly the finality of the statement was too much, and he had to fight the tears. He shrugged to response to Detective Arnold's question, not trusting his voice.

"And you're how old? Twenty-two, Dean told the doctor? That's young, to have to face the rest of your life blind."

Why is he doing this? Sam thought in agony. Why is he torturing me like this? What can he possibly gain from it? He still could not speak-his heart had opened raw and bleeding and his soul was like a rock in his throat, blocking speech or movement, inhibiting everything except pain. He did not want to face the future-he dared not look ahead. What was this sadistic cop trying to achieve in forcing him?

"Sam, wouldn't you want the person responsible for ruining your life like that punished?"

"Sure, if you can find him," Sam choked out, struggling to keep to his story, to his plan. "We don't know who it was."

"But this elusive psychopath…we've found no trace of him, Sam. All we have his your brother Dean."

Sam sat bolt upright, anger flaring. "Look, Dean _didn't do this_ to me, okay?" he snapped. "Dean saved my life. Why can't you believe that?"

"All right," Detective Arnold said quietly. "All right, Sam, as you wish." Sam heard the creaking of the chair as he stood up, followed by his silent companion, whom Sam deduced from the sound of the high-heeled boots on the floor to be Detective Land. "There'll be someone guarding your door," he said. "For your protection, of course. And I think you should consider co-operating with us, for your good and ours."

Sam said nothing. He wanted to be alone, he wanted to be safe, somewhere he knew, where he could just break down and cry, or scream, or run away, get _away_ from this nightmare, where he could go ahead and _die_ because the rest of his life wasn't going to mean anything at all whatever he or Dean or anyone else did. He was sick of this-there was no earthly way he could track down Jessica's killer without even his _sight_, no way he could avenge her, assuage that tearing guilt and grief inside him. His life and purpose was over…lying there alone he could not but think of everything he had lost. He could never go back to school-sure, there were schools for the blind, but the idea of accepting it to that extent just opened a whole wellspring of agony inside him. He couldn't hunt, not blind, not so useless and vulnerable. And that meant he was going to lose Dean as well, because hunting was Dean's life, there was no other way he could get by, and Sam wouldn't want him to give up something like that…fear cramped his stomach as he imagined letting Dean hunt evil alone, without Sam to protect him, without knowing that he would be okay…

He would never see the sky again, never read a book-except in Braille, and that notion too awakened chills of panic within him-never see his own face in the mirror, never smile at the sight of a beautiful painting or landscape. He would always have to be led around, walk with a cane like an old man, disabled and pitiful and useless, for the rest of his life. People would speak in hushed voices, uneasy in his presence, with that bizarre guilt and embarrassment everyone always used around the disabled…

And how would he survive it? He did not need the nightmares to remind him that Jessica was not about to leave him alone-that he _had_ to avenge her, that it would kill him to let this go. Dean had given him some kind of hope: the words flared in his memory and he wondered how he could ever have been so okay. _And I'll tell you what else helps. Killing every evil sonuvabitch that I possibly can. _But now he could not-now those days were over. There was no way out.

Suddenly Sam wanted to die right then and there. Locked away in the darkness of past, present and future, all alone, there seemed no better option.

"Sam."

His head snapped up as he recognised Dr Lucas' voice. His heart sank: couldn't they just leave him alone to suffer? Why did they keep on coming back at him with their endless questions and insanity? He was sick of this…

"Doctor," he acknowledged. He heard the doctor's footsteps approaching and then a hand coming to rest on his shoulder. He flinched away instinctively, then sighed.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Dr Lucas said intently. "You have every right to be a little nervous, after everything you've been through." Sam did not reply, only pushing his overlong bangs out of his eyes; it was an automatic gesture of uncertainty, though of course it made no difference to his vision.

"Sam, as your brother did not in fact pay for his and your treatment here, the detectives intend to take you down to the station and hold you until he can be found. Do you understand? They are going to hold you responsible for the debt, even if they can't prove anything else on him."

The idea was chilling, but by now Sam was aware only of a kind of crushing despair at everything, and he felt not so much alarm as resignation. He did not really care what happened to him any longer. He only shrugged.

"I'm telling you this because I consider the entire situation to be unfair," Dr Lucas continued. "Is there no way of contacting Dean, or anyone else who could help you?"

"There's no-one else," Sam said quietly. "And I wasn't lying to them. I don't know where Dean is." Suddenly he lifted his head. "But why would you help me?"

Dr Lucas hesitated as he looked down at the youth before him, the pain and despair in his sightless wide hazel eyes; he had no clear answer. He only knew that the world was somehow wrong when something like this could happen to a person so innocent, so gentle, so hurt already. He had become a doctor in order to help people: it seemed now perverse that he was so powerless to do anything for Sam, who seemed to deserve it so much more than most.

"I will try and persuade them to delay taking you," was all he said. "But you need to understand that my chances of success are not exactly high."

Sam nodded. "I know," he acknowledged tonelessly. And Dr Lucas saw the black hole eating away at this broken young stranger, saw it clearly, but there was nothing he could do. He only prayed that the boy's brother would return soon, because he doubted that Sam could make it through this world at all without him.

**Please review! More will happen next chapter, I realise that this one was mostly angst!**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13:

Two Days Later:

Dr Lucas stepped into his office, running a hand across his head tiredly; it had been a long day. At that moment he heard a footfall behind him and began to turn, only to freeze as an arm was slipped around his neck and the cold metal of a blade pressed to his throat.

"Who's there?" he demanded, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Where's Sam?" hissed back a furious voice. Dr Lucas, understanding, began to relax-but only a little.

"The cops took him, this morning," he replied. "Dean, right?"

"Why'd they take him? They had nothing on him."

"Except your debt, after the credit card you used turned out to be fake."

A long exhalation. Maybe Dean hadn't thought of that. Maybe he had just believed too hard in his brother's immunity to his crimes.

"Where's the station?"

Dr Lucas reeled off the address.

"Okay. I want you to sit down in your chair, nice and easy, and put your hands on your head." Dr Lucas did not move, until he felt a sharp nudge in his back. "Move!"

Lucas moved stiffly across to his chair and dropped into it, folding hands he could not keep from shaking on the top of his head. He felt cords pulled around his wrists and tightened, but did not move or make a sound. He did not react when he felt himself being tied to his chair, or when the black rag was stuffed into his mouth: he found himself understanding. And when Dean slammed out of the room, locking the door behind him, Dr Lucas found, to his astonishment, that all he was feeling was relief that someone had finally come to try and help Sam.

…

"Sam, you know we're authorised to keep you here as long as we need if you don't find a way to pay," Detective Arnold said. "So it's worth thinking about co-operating." He shook his head as he glared down at the silent young man across the table in the interrogation cell he had been imprisoned in since the morning. Dr Lucas had been reluctant to let them take him, pleading that Sam was still not fully healed-and that much was certainly true, as even to the inexpert eye of Detective Arnold the kid was running a fever and very weak, still plagued with that racking cough that sometimes brought up blood-but he had delayed them two days and enough was enough. They had manhandled Sam into a wheelchair and brought him here, and since then the whole day had been one of questions, of inadequate answers, and of getting nowhere at all.

"Look," Sam said quietly. "There's nothing I can say. You've got me, okay? Leave Dean alone." He was staring down at the tabletop, eyes narrowed, as if to somehow minimise the extent to which he did not see. If this had been any other situation Arnold would have felt some sympathy for him, but as it was he was not just a hurt boy not much older than Arnold's own son, but a suspect. That was all it took to deal with this dispassionately. Arnold rose to his feet, folding his arms.

"I'm going to leave you now," he told Sam. "But I'll be back. You could be in here for a very long time, kid. Think about that." And Sam heard his footsteps receding, heard a door creak open and then slam shut, and he slumped forwards onto the table, pressing his forehead against the cold metal and trying not to think about anything at all, least of all the insanity of this situation, or how much his broken ribs were hurting, or how badly he missed Dean.

….

Dean, feeling like a clown in his 'borrowed' police uniform and pervaded with a sense of complete unreality-he was amazed that he had made it this far without being caught, but it was amazing what flashing an ID bearing the wrong photograph could do for you-slipped into the basement of the police station like a thief. He had never done anything this stupid, this reckless-at least not when dealing with human beings-and he had not done many things which filled him with this sense of urgency. He felt as if he had not had time to stop in days: the accumulated guilt of all his endless mistakes was building up inside him like cancerous cells, multiplying by the second, soon, surely, to explode.

It was his fault that Sam was in this mess. And Sam should never have had to endure those last few days alone, to save Dean.

He peered through the glass windows in the doors of the holding cells as he passed: most appeared to be empty, although he did spot a balding man who, judging by his position on his knees in the corner and the mess beside him, had been apprehended for crimes involving being drunk and disorderly. He was growing desperate by the time he reached the end of the hallway and still had not found Sam, but finally he glanced through the very last window and his heart leaped. Sam was sitting behind one of those spindly little metal tables, slumped across it as if in total despair. A hospital wheelchair was folded in the corner. Dean went to the door, fumbling with the lock and fighting further pangs of guilt-the sheer utter hopelessness of his little brother's very stance was on him as well.

He finally worked out that he was supposed to swipe his stolen ID across the keypad and, sweating at the delay, managed to get the door open. Sam did not look up, though he flinched at the noise, and Dean pushed the door to as he hurried forwards and gripped his brother's shoulder. Sam started, lashing out in his vague direction, and it tore Dean's heart to see the helpless fear in his sightless eyes.

"Hey, Sammy, it's me! C'mon, let's get your ass outa here-"

"_Dean_?" Sam breathed. "But how…how'd you…"

"Tell ya later." He went to the wheelchair and examined it. "How the hell do they open these things…" It took some struggling, but at last he got it erected. "Okay. Sam, hang onto me and I'll help you…"

"Dean, this is insane," Sam pointed out. "You're gonna get yourself busted-"

"Hey!" Dean snapped. "Your whole stupid plan was always meant to be temporary, remember? So stop complaining and co-operate, okay?"

"You sound like a cop," Sam muttered a little weakly, but reached out to find the metal of the chair with one hand while gripping Dean's arm with the other and with some difficulty levering himself into the chair. His face twisted as he completed the manoeuvre, but he made no sound.

"You are now my prisoner," Dean told him cheerfully. "So look mad and keep your hands inside the cart at all times during the ride. Or I'll have to cuff you."

"You are enjoying this way too much," Sam muttered.

"And don't think I won't, convict!" Dean added as if he had not spoken, and pushed the wheelchair out of the door.

He got it into the elevator: its only other occupant was a young-looking deputy, who eyed him with the awe of a rookie faced with a senior, and a senior in the act of transporting a prisoner at that. Dean fought to keep a straight face as the young man scrambled out, staring, and as the door closed and they began to climb he snickered.

"Oh, if you'd just seen his face…"

"Dean. Concentrate," Sam ordered. "Do you actually have a plan?"

Dean grinned, though he knew Sam could not see him. "Improvise. It's what I do best."

Sam groaned. He somehow did not see much chance of this succeeding.

The elevator doors slid smoothly open to reveal a bare, blank corridor Dean recognised from his previous trip. He pushed the chair out and glanced up and down, chose a direction and began to walk. Sam remained silent, not certain if there was anyone else around or not, and it was a fortunate precaution, as at that moment a door opened and a policewoman in black stepped out, her face taking on a look of surprise as she registered them.

"What are you doing?" she said to Dean. "That's the kid from the hospital, he's meant to stay down there."

"Uh, new orders," Dean improvised desperately. "Detective Land sent me to bring him up."

She looked dubious. "And…who are you?"

Dean flashed his ID, too fast for her to see the picture. _Come on, come on, hurry up already lady_…she still looked a little uneasy, but nodded. "Maybe I should call and check."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Dean said hurriedly. "She seemed kind of busy."

The woman nodded again, slowly, then shrugged, apparently deciding that it was none of her business, and headed on past them. Dean breathed out and quickened his pace, praying that they wouldn't run into anyone who might recognise him.

Their luck could not hold. The only way out was through the front hall, which was thronging with people, crowded for the most part around the reception desk. Many of them turned in surprise to see this strange deputy with the cap pulled low over his eyes wheeling Detective Arnold's pet annoyance out of the main doors, and quite suddenly Dean heard a familiar voice.

"Stop!"

He cringed. It was Detective Land. Slowly, very slowly, he turned.

She was striding towards him, her face scrunched up with a mixture of bemusement and dawning rage. Dean took a deep breath. Stopping now and trying to explain would do no good-she would recognise him and it would all be over. He turned away again.

"This is where it gets fun," he told Sam, leaned on the wheelchair handles and began to run.

He would never have made it, not pursued by almost the entirety of the police force, but he and Sam had a meagre start and he had parked the Impala right outside the station, round a corner. He punched the first man to reach them in the face, shoving him back, while Sam fumbled for the passenger door and managed a sort of half-leap inside: Dean left the wheelchair swaying on the pavement, to be stumbled over by the next cop, flung himself into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. The Impala shot forwards with a terrifying scream of tyres scraping the pavement, and Dean murmured a silent prayer of apology to his baby's paintwork before rocketing out onto the road and haring off between the cars queuing up in a traffic jam.

…

He did not stop for a good hour, following the safe path he had laid out during his last escape, eyes fixed on the road ahead, barely even registering Sam's silence or laboured breathing. Then at last he slowed, breathing out, and relaxed his hands on the wheel.

"Now that was something," he said in satisfaction. "Worthy of Batman himself."

"You're completely insane," Sam muttered from beside him, voice muffled and hoarse. Dean turned.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Uh-huh."

The engine slowed further. "No you're not," Dean disagreed sharply. Sam was hunched over in his seat, arms clasping his midriff, his shaggy bangs hanging forward to conceal much of his face, his breath coming harshly and with effort. "Sam, look at me." Sam flinched and Dean mentally cursed himself. "C'mon, I need to see your face."

Sam looked up and Dean scowled. His brother's face was paper white and shimmering with sweat, and he felt guilt surge through him. _He_ might have been having a little too much fun breaking out of the police station, but for Sam it had evidently been a shattering ordeal. He should remember his brother's weakness: he had nearly died only days ago.

"Ah…I see. We should stop sometime soon."

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam sighed. "I'm just…a little tired."

"You are so far from fine it's not even funny. I just want to get past the state boundary and then we're stopping."

Sam said nothing, only huddled deeper into himself, closing his eyes so the crushing darkness of his world would not overcome him. And Dean saw his baby brother's defence mechanisms, understanding them for what they were, and felt his heart break yet again.

…..

They found a motel two states over, after driving all night, by which time Sam seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, barely lucid and obviously in agony, though he determinedly refused to admit it: clearly he should never have been discharged from hospital so soon, and Dean found himself damning the cops responsible straight to hell. He paid for a room, then returned to the car for Sam, whom he supported, pulling his good arm over his shoulder and hauling him out of the car: Sam stumbled against him and almost fell, swaying over the tarmac.

"Whoa, easy, we're almost through," Dean muttered. "Just lean on me, it's not far."

"Yeah…" Sam's voice was an uncertain, barely audible mumble. Dean somehow dragged him as far as their room, where Sam collapsed on the bed and immediately curled himself into as small a ball as possible, face scrunched up tight with pain. Dean busied himself digging out packs of Tylenol and a bottle of water for his brother, but by the time he found them Sam appeared to have passed out where he lay, seeming far younger in sleep than he really was, a low shivering running through his whole body. Dean, suddenly struck by an overwhelming exhaustion and despair, sank down onto the bed beside him, putting his face in his hands.

He just did not know how on earth they were going to manage this. He had no idea what they were going to do now.

**I don't get the feeling that this chapter is very sort of polished, but I also don't think it'll get much better if I delay posting it. So hopefully it's okay! Reviews are inspiration!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Another warning: Things get very, **_**very**_** angsty here…**

Chapter 14:

_Jessica's gentle, slender hands caressed his chest, his face, his arms, carding through his hair. Sam smiled, eyes still closed in bliss-he had missed her so much. And then he gasped as agony split suddenly through him-her fingernails dug viciously into him, rending deep grooves through his skin. His eyes snapped open-nothing. He yelled in shock, struggling against her, but she was laughing now, a cold, cruel laughter that chilled his heart, and he could not fight her, could not even see where she was, and then screaming, endless screaming, Jessica's awful animal howls, and then Dean's yells of agony, and Sam spun on the spot, blind and helpless to find them, to save them, while they were tortured to death before him…_

"_No_!"

He jerked awake, jolting bolt upright, fighting for breath, broken ribs searing. Darkness. Emptiness. It was still true. He was still blind. Despair cracked through him like lightning.

"Sam?" Dean's sleepless sharp tones cut the silence, and Sam jumped violently. His head was spinning and he felt sick. Suddenly he was convinced he was going to _be_ sick, but wouldn't be able to even find the bathroom on his own. He took deep breaths, fighting to calm himself before it was too late.

"Dean," he gasped. "Where…where are we?"

Creaking bedsprings. Footsteps.

"Some motel somewhere. We got here last night, don't you remember?" Sam heard a clicking sound and thought that a light was being switched on, and then there was a sharp intake of breath.

"Hell, you look like crap."

Sam was feeling more and more like it too: his chest hurt and his leg hurt and his head hurt, and it was frighteningly hard to breathe through lungs that burned at the touch of oxygen. It was also cold-_freezing_ cold-in here; he fumbled for the blanket on the bed and pulled it around his shoulders, huddling into it. "I…I think I'm all right," he said, half to himself, half to Dean. Moments later he knew he was not. "Dean-help me-bathroom?" he managed to croak. Dean, alarmed, gripped him by one arm and half-carried him across the room-Sam slipped from his grasp onto cold tiles and somehow found the toilet bowl, retching helplessly into it, his whole body convulsing painfully. When finally there was nothing left inside him to throw up he felt himself slump down onto the bathroom floor, his breath coming in quick pants, his suddenly-burning skin soothed by the icy tiles. He suddenly remembered that Dean was still there and felt a hot wave of shame rush over him, and struggled to his hands and knees.

"You're burning up," Dean muttered, feeling his forehead. Sam flinched away: his brother's fingers were like hot coals. "N…nnno, s'you," he slurred, reaching out blindly for some kind of purchase. It was Dean's hand that took his, and Sam's head dropped.

"M'sorry," he whispered, defeated.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Dean snapped almost angrily. "Dammit, this is all my fault."

"No…"

"Yeah. I didn't believe you about that spectre, Sam, if I'd just listened to you none of this would've happened."

"I…I was wrong, too," Sam reminded him breathlessly, levering himself into a sitting position against the wall to breathe more easily. He closed his eyes, shivering. He was cold again all of a sudden-_that_ didn't make sense. Dean was still talking.

"And then I went and left you with them, Sammy, I shouldn't have freaking left you there!"

"Was…was no other way," Sam whispered. "Dean-" His eyes widened in a characteristic motion of earnestness, though he saw nothing. "Dean, you're…you're my brother…I have…hafta take care… you….f'I can…"

"It's _my_ job to take care of you," Dean said angrily. "Always has been and always will be. It was a goddamn _stupid_ plan and I am never doing _anything_ you think up again. You can't just sacrifice yourself like that, Sammy, what if I hadn't been able to get you out?"

"M'name's…_Sam_," Sam croaked. "And…" His voice dropped still lower. "You're more…important…I can't even see…useless now…"

Dean could not believe he had heard right. "What the hell, Sam?" he spluttered. "This whole freaking mess is my fault! You're not useless, you're never gonna be useless, you know that!"

Sam was silent, shying away from the thought of the future. Dean sighed.

"You know, I was thinking we should call Bobby," he said tentatively. "Bobby Singer, remember? We could lay low at his place a while…"

"No," Sam whispered. "No…don't want him to…" He broke off but Dean understood. "You don't want him to see you like this? But Sam-"

"Please," Sam cried softly. "Please, not yet? Just…need time…I'll be okay…"

"Yeah…okay…" Dean shook his head to clear it. "Anyway, you need to sleep, you're running a fever," he said resignedly. "Tomorrow we'll talk about all this. C'mon." He got Sam to hang on around his shoulders as he levered him to his feet, careful not to knock his little brother's broken leg, and half-carried him over to his bed, where he laid him down and piled the covers around him. Sam pushed them off again involuntarily, his skin burning. Dean handed him a glass of water and two pain pills and Sam caught the glass awkwardly in his good hand and sipped it, then, realising how thirsty he was, drained it in one with the pills, almost choking.

"Wow, sure you don't want anything stronger?" Dean quipped, trying to make a weak joke out of it, but neither of them laughed. Sam was already fading back into unconsciousness, but as he slipped away he suddenly reached up and caught Dean's sleeve.

"Don't let me sleep?" he asked hopelessly. Dean sighed.

"Nightmares?"

A barely perceptible nod.

"I'll wake you if it gets intense," Dean promised. "It'll be okay, Sammy, I'll make sure you're okay."

But both of them knew that Dean just wasn't in control of okay any more, and maybe hadn't been since Sam was only a little kid to whom his big brother was a hero, a god, ultimately powerful. Suddenly Dean found himself wishing desperately that those days could come again. Those days of their childhood, when there was nothing too terrible for them to face together.

….

**Three Days Later**:

Dean entered their motel room carrying a paper bag loaded with junk food in the crook of one arm and a six-pack of beer in the other. "The conquering hero returns!" he announced to Sam, in a voice of fake cheerfulness that he had perfected over the last few days, then stopped dead and sighed, the door slamming obtrusively shut behind him.

Sam was sitting in the corner of the room, hunched over, the leg in the cast stretched out in front of him in a position that looked extremely uncomfortable. One hand plucked absently at the plaster; the other was folded across his right knee, his head leaning on it as he stared blankly down at the floor. He had not moved since Dean had left.

"Sam…"

No response.

"Hey, Sam, I brought food…"

"Uh-huh…"

Dean dumped his purchases on the table and pulled a slightly greasy pizza box out of the bag with some difficulty. "You want to come to the table or just eat down there?" he asked, trying to conceal his unease. Sam shrugged.

"I'm not really hungry."

"You haven't been hungry for three days."

"Yeah, but I still ate."

"Only like a chick. You need to eat something now, Sam, or you'll never get your strength back."

Sam shook his head. "Really, Dean, I'm fine."

Dean slammed his fist down on the table in sudden anger. "No you are not freaking fine, will you stop saying that? You need to eat, Sam, so get your ass up here!"

"I don't need to eat," Sam said quietly. "I ate like two hours ago."

"I am getting sick of this, you know that? We have had this same fight every single day now and I am getting sick of it! You need to eat, Sam, you need to try and get _well_!"

"I am well," Sam said softly. "Please, Dean, I'm really not hungry right now. I'll eat later?" Dean, torn between rage and despair, caught that look of pleading hopelessness and felt all the passion drain out of him: he tried to pretend otherwise, but the sheer extent of Sam's utter brokenness just kept hitting him. He backed down, because it just hurt too much to fight any more.

**One week later:**

Sam, his left leg released only that morning from the plaster cast, gripped the table hard with both hands and hauled himself from the wheelchair to his feet. The doctor had told him not to try walking around for a few days yet, and Dean had agreed, but Dean was at the car getting their weapons and Sam just had to _try_. For so long now he had been so utterly useless, unable to walk, unable to get around by himself, unable to _see_, and it was tearing him apart. He half-fell over the table, swaying, breathing hard, then straightened obstinately up, leaning hard on the table and taking most of his weight off his bad leg. He reached out into the darkness with his good hand, found nothing there to obstruct him, and took a determined step forwards. Instantly the broken limb crumpled beneath him and he collapsed forwards onto his hands and knees, striking his head against the table. He gave a frustrated yelp of pain and anger, then clung to the table and forced himself back to his feet to try again.

To walk again-the idea was like resurrection.

At that moment the door burst open and Sam felt himself stumble again, his concentration slipping, and he barely kept from kissing the dust again by falling across the table. Dean's voice swore and Sam heard furious footsteps approaching.

"What-the-_hell_ do you think you're _playing_ at?" Dean snapped. "You trying to wreck that leg forever, you idiot? You need to take it slow, remember? The doctor said another three days!" He grabbed Sam by the arm and forced him back to sit in the wheelchair; Sam, glaring and humiliated, turned his face away.

"I'm not an invalid, Dean," he muttered bitterly. Dean gave a kind of barking, mirthless laugh. "Oh, yes you are, you are till I say you're not!"

"Oh, so you get to decide now?" Sam demanded furiously. "I'm not gonna just sit around and _die_, Dean, I have to do something!"

"And what can you do?" Dean yelled in a sudden blinding fury, losing control completely. "You can't _see_, Sam! You're gonna get yourself hurt, or killed, unless you give it time, because you're not in any position to take care of yourself right now! Deal with it, okay? You can't do everything alone!" He stopped short, suddenly, gasping at the force of his anger that had passed as swiftly as it came, horrified at the look of empty, dull despair that had suddenly shuttered his little brother's pale, bruised face.

"I guess you're right," Sam said softly, very slowly, as if mulling it over in his own mind. "I can't take care of myself. I can't do anything right. I'm blind and I always will be, and I'm useless." He spun the wheelchair about and turned it to the wall, and Dean quite suddenly couldn't be there any longer. He _felt_ the words of apology, of reassurance, of comfort boiling behind his lips, but he had said them all so many times before, there was no point in this any more, no point in _anything_, no way out, and being in that room with all that pain was like trying to breathe in the middle, the dead centre, of a raging tempest. He turned and stormed out, hating himself for leaving his little brother, his reason for living, in the midst of such agony, but just drained dry of words and of hope, maybe once and for all.

…

**Two weeks later:**

It was night; Sam could tell by the cold on his skin when he opened the window, and besides, if it had been daytime Dean would be around. His brother had lied to him about where he was going the past few nights now, claiming to be headed for a bar, or a club, or a date, but Sam had always been able to tell when Dean was lying, and now that he could not see he found that every inflection in his big brother's voice spoke volumes to him. Dean was hunting, or researching for a hunt at least, without Sam, because that was the way he dealt with his pain, and Sam was too vulnerable and useless now without his sight to be able to help. A liability.

Rain hammered on the window like bullets and Sam found himself drawn towards the wildness, inorexably and helplessly, as if by some kind of invisible magnet. He fumbled his way to the window-he was getting quite good at finding his way now, despite the changing location necessary to evade the cops, as most motel rooms had a similar layout-and managed to get the latch open. The panes blew wide immediately, slamming against the wall outside with each gust of rain-soaked wind, and Sam leaned out in a kind of painful ecstasy, feeling the icy air knifing through his overlong hair, the cold arrows of rain jetting onto his face, invigorating skin that had felt dead as ancient tissue in a morgue or grave for so long. He felt his body convulse in a kind of answering dry sob, the storm searing right down to the depths of his soul, to very core of the pain and darkness that was all his life comprised, echoing it and imploding it. Suddenly there was so much emotion inside him it hurt. He leaned out further, the invisible night looming in on him, the rain soaking his shirt and hair, the fresh, fume-laced, lung-chilling air like life.

Life-or death.

Suddenly Sam realised how easy it would be just to lean too far, to overbalance, accidentally or not, to fall in a final triumphant flight as though on broken, burning wings, to plummet through utter darkness with the wind rushing in his ears and his life flashing before his eyes-to end everything with a fatal crunch, an instant of pain and then no more. He wondered if it was true that suicides always found their way to Hell-it was one aspect of the Christian faith he had never been sure about. Maybe he would see angels, meet God…the pure pain and horror of his imaginings blasted suddenly through his soul and he realised what he had been envisioning. Sickened, he jerked back from the window, trembling with cold and fear, guilt flaring through him like a hot wave. _Dean_. How could he even imagine doing something like that to Dean? After everything, for his brother to come home and find him…

He staggered back from the window, terrified and repulsed by himself, by the decay of his own soul. Suddenly there was no way out of the hell, the darkness of his world and he found himself crumpling to the ground, curling up small, the nightmare of his life closing in with snapping jaws of shadow, threatening eternal suffering and a dull black agony that had no relief. What if Dean didn't come home? Sam could not bear to be alone any longer-he needed Dean in that instant like he needed to breathe. He fumbled for his phone in his pocket-he and Dean had bought new ones since the fire-and by touch pressed speed-dial 1 for his brother's number. The phone went straight to voicemail-Dean was hunting, he had turned off his phone. Sam dropped the useless bit of technology to the ground, covering his face with shaking hands. No way out. No way out. Alone and trapped with the monster of himself-_no way out_.

He found himself rising, with a kind of false outward calm that amazed him. He grasped the table to find his way, the wind still slicing through him, right to the bone through the open window that crashed with every gust. As if another body moved his he stumbled to his bed, where he knew he would find it, lying there innocent and harmless on the bedside table-his hand clutched it and he sank to the floor beside his bed, trembling violently with emotion. His fingers shook as he fumbled it open, traced the cold silver of the blade. He hesitated-then suddenly he could take it no longer, and with a kind of anger drew the clasp knife across the side of his wrist, not even wincing at the rush of sharp pain, the sickening way the skin pulled on the edges of the blade, the warmth of blood pooling in his hand. Sam yanked the blade away, breathing out as if with exertion, and suddenly realised-a jolt of horror went through him.

_What have I done_?

What have I become…

He cradled his injured wrist to his chest, trying not to cry from sheer despair, trying to understand how he could have fallen apart so utterly. I'm weak, he thought bitterly, I'm weak and useless and it's no wonder I got myself into this mess. And if Dean doesn't come home it'll all be my fault…

…

When Dean slipped through the door of their motel room at two thirty in the morning, spattered with mud but otherwise uninjured-the hunt for that ghost had gone well, although he did feel guilty about first leaving Sam alone, and then lying to him-, he was met with darkness, stillness. He flicked on the light, knowing it would not disturb Sam: he saw that his brother was asleep in his bed, curled up small as was his wont, hunched so deeply in the covers his face was barely visible. The window was closed but the floor around it was wet and his research papers seemed to have blown everywhere: what was Sam doing, opening the window in a storm like that? He shrugged, yawned: it was time, at last, to sleep. He crossed to his bed and started stripping off his wet clothes-then suddenly froze.

Sam had moved in his sleep, bringing his hand close to his face, and Dean saw his wrist with a kind of painful clarity, a jolt like waking up to a bucket of cold water. Saw the angry red cut, barely scabbing over, obviously fresh, saw the faint bloodstain on the sheet beside it. He ran a hand through his short hair, closing his eyes as the reality crashed over him: Sam wasn't okay. Maybe he never would be.

**Sam will improve, I promise, and he will show his strength. You have to remember that this kind of thing would kill lesser people, I think Sam needs to have his realistic share of despair. I hope I managed to get a sense of that across! Please bear with him! More action and more competency from both brothers next chapter, which I will have up extremely soon to make up for the depressive-ness of this one…**

**So basically bear with Sam and his emo behaviour, I think he has an excuse for it!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Getting out of the angst-fest a little, here you're going to see some real epic Sam Winchester!**

Chapter 15:

**One month later:**

Dean came creeping through the door of the derelict, rundown old house he and Sam had been inhabiting for the past two weeks, treading carefully on the creaky boards and trying not to make a sound. It was not to be, though: his little brother's hearing had sharpened dramatically since he had lost his sight. Sam came striding through to the hall and stood there staring at Dean, for all the world as if he could see him. Dean grimaced-Sam looked terrible. He clearly had not slept or eaten since Dean had left.

"What the hell happened?" Sam demanded with a fury born of fear.

"I, uh, got held up," Dean said vaguely.

"You were gone two days and nights, Dean! I thought you were dead for God's sake and you hadn't even told me where you were going!"

"Look, I got the spirit, but not before it got me is all," Dean said, annoyed and increasingly guilty. "It, uh, knocked me out and I woke up…about three hours ago."

Sam's face twisted. "You've been lying somewhere out cold for a whole day and you just come back and think that's okay? Don't you understand what it's like thinking you'll never come back? D'you know what it's like for me letting you go at all?"

Dean pushed past him into the house, thinking about showers-if the damned thing decided to work this time-and any kind of food, trying to drown his guilt in practicality. "You want me to say I'm sorry, Sam?" he snapped. "Fine, _sorry_! It was a freaking mistake. And hell, since when do you get to decide all my movements anyway?"

Sam turned and marched out, knowing that he was doing it at least partially in case his face betrayed any of the pain boiling inside him.

….

The next afternoon Sam stepped out of the house cautiously, heart in his mouth, tapping the pavement in front of him steadily with his cane. He felt exposed, as if caught in a spotlight; trapped. And yet he persevered. He had only been out the front way once before, with Dean, a long time ago-he hated to walk out among people, always slow and leaning on his cane like an old man, proclaiming his disability to the world, imagining the glances of pity and unease that were sure to flower inevitably on the faces of those around him. But if Dean was going to be reckless with his safety like this then Sam was just going to have to find a way to strengthen himself. Somehow, he had to get back into hunting, because only that way could he survive letting Dean go.

He felt as if he was dangling over the edge of a yawning precipice without a rope: uneasy and precarious, close to falling, swaying as if in high wind. It was a small town they had chosen to hide in, but he could still hear other people around him, talking, breathing, moving. He hardened himself and fought to ignore them, not to envision their faces when they looked at him, feeling their gazes burning into his skin like fire. Cane in hand he found his way to the general store that Dean had shown him earlier-his hunter-trained sense of direction could really come in handy now that it was almost all he had to get him around-and went inside, finding his way carefully to the counter.

"Uh-good morning?" came the voice of the woman behind the counter. Sam cringed inwardly, imagining he could hear the uncertainty in it. "What can I do for you, kid? Are you lost?"

"No," Sam said determinedly. "I came to buy a carton of milk."

The shopkeeper hesitated, faintly recognising this young man from somewhere, then turned to take a carton down from the shelf behind him. The kid was blind, clearly, his empty eyes fixed on the floor, clinging to his cane like a lifeline, and it was a sad sight indeed, someone so young and handsome so damaged. The shopkeeper guided Sam's hand to the milk, and Sam slid his other hand into his pocket for some money. He panicked then, realising he would not be able to tell how much was the correct amount-how had he not thought of that earlier?-and just flung down everything he had onto the counter before turning to flee.

"Wait!" the shopkeeper called after him. Sam froze.

"Your change…" He turned to take the proffered handful of coins, then rushed out of there as fast as he could. Once outside he paused, taking deep breaths in an effort to orient himself. You did it. You did it! This'll prove something to Dean, you did it! He felt a kind of euphoria welling up inside him-this was by far the furthest he had come in terms of recovery; it was, to him, an immense achievement. His elation was somewhat diluted, however, by his persistent fear and shyness of being outside at all, and he turned for home. His cane slipped suddenly off the pavement and he stumbled, nearly falling, his shoulder colliding with someone else. "I'm sorry," he muttered, embarrassed as he righted himself. "Sorry, sorry…"

Someone swore, and he heard a slurred voice snarl in his ear: "You better be, you pr***" Startled he stepped back, almost falling off the kerb completely, only to sense rather than hear the rush of air as a fist was aimed for his face. Instinctively he ducked, bringing up his own arm to block the punch: the force behind the strike jarred his whole body. He smelt a sudden rushing stench of alcohol and heard a grunt of rage from his assailant, whom he now realised must be extremely drunk, and a mixture of fear and bizarre recklessness jolted through him. There was nobody who was going to help him, and in some strange, masochistic way he was glad of it, welcoming the chance to fight or die-

"Get the hell _away_ from him!" a furious voice yelled at that moment, and to his surprise Sam felt his heart sink as he recognised Dean. Running footsteps, a hand grabbing his arm.

"And who are you to give orders?" Sam's assailant demanded. "His keeper? Back off, okay, I gotta deal with this little sh*t myself."

"I'm his brother," Dean snapped. "And you're too drunk to punch a sloth. Get outa here or you're gonna find yourself flying out."

Apparently the drunk had decided to let it go, because Dean was suddenly leading Sam away from the scene, cussing under his breath as he went. Sam said nothing, his earlier optimism shattered by what had happened. All he had shown Dean was that he could get himself into serious trouble just walking down the street of a small town, and that he still needed his big brother to watch out for him.

"You didn't need to interfere," he muttered at last. Dean stopped talking, startled.

"Are you kidding me? You couldn't see him but he was gonna kill you, Sammy, or last night's vodka was anyway."

"I had it sorted," Sam mumbled unreasonably. "You can't keep protecting me your entire life, Dean. I have to try…"

Dean gave a wordless, violent exclamation. "Sam, it's barely two months since you lost your sight I'm sorry-" -seeing his brother's flinch of inner pain- "But it's true. That's not a long time, you need to take it slow, you need to accept that you're more vulnerable than you were before or you're gonna get yourself hurt!" When Sam remained stubbornly silent he blew out a long, frustrated breath. "And you can't pretend to me that you're okay, because you're not. You're dreaming about either Jessica or that spectre every night and you're waking up screaming Dad's name and I don't know why the hell he hasn't called either but you need to try and get over this!"

"How can I get over anything like this?" Sam said softly, stopping dead in the middle of the road, raising his arms in a slow shrug of hopelessness. "Dean, I'm useless. I'm nothing. There's nothing worth living for any more, nothing except you, and every time you go away on a hunt I can just sit there terrified in case you don't come back. How can I do anything else but fight it?"

Dean had no reply.

…

"Hey-Sam-I'm, uh, gonna be out tonight," Dean said a little uneasily the next morning. Sam lifted his head.

"What're you hunting?"

Dean sighed. "I think it's ghouls, shouldn't be a problem though, I'll only be gone a few hours."

Sam shrugged. "I'm coming with you," he said simply. Dean jerked back, shocked.

"Hell no!"

"_Yes_," Sam insisted. "Dean, I'm not going to sit here and hope you come back any more. I'm coming with you and that's final."

Dean felt a mingled howl of panic and anger rising inside him, and spluttered out: "Sam, you're crazy. There's no way you can take on a ghoul!"

"I'll find a way to help," Sam, said determinedly, his face taking on that intractable expression that always reminded Dean of their father-that always told him arguing would just do no good. "But I'm not getting left behind again, I'm just not."

…

There were two ghouls by all reports, and they had apparently made their temporary camp in a small forest glade not far from town. Dean parked the Impala a safe distance away and went to the trunk to find his machete and gun-ghouls had to be killed by decapitation-then started as he found that Sam had followed him.

"You are not going in there with me!" he hissed with an anger born of fear. He had been imagining all day against his will all the worst possible scenarios in which the ghouls ate Sam alive, tore him apart, kidnapped him and vanished forever…

"You can't take on them both on your own," Sam pointed out calmly.

"I'll do it a helluva lot better if I don't have to watch out for you the whole time!"

"Don't watch out for me," Sam said quietly. "I'll be okay."

Dean slammed his fist down on the car door, for once in his life disregarding the possibility of damage to the paintwork. "Sam, this is insane! There is no earthly way you can do anything here other than get yourself killed!"

Stubborn, desperate, Sam faced him in silence. Dean sighed, finally, relenting more because he sensed that time was running out than because he could stand to think about what might happen. "Fine. I'm gonna find a safe place for you to stand as rearguard, and on the off-chance that I miss one of them you can try and get it. Deal?"

Sam could not have said that he was happy with it, but it was the best he was going to get. "Deal."

Dean's chosen hiding place was barely any distance from the car, and still a long way from the ghouls themselves. His plan, of course, was just to leave Sam there in safety, where he would not be able to throw himself into danger, and where he could come back and find him later. Sam, however, was not so easily fooled.

"I said I'm going to _help_," he pointed out. "There's nothing I can do back here."

Dean turned to survey his brother. Sam was wearing his old brown hoodie and it hung off him, betraying how thin he had become since the spectre had nearly killed him. He clutched his machete in one hand, so tightly his knuckles were white, and he was using the other to feel for the tree trunks in his path. So determined-so vulnerable. Dean gave up on deception and fell back onto pleading.

"Sam, please. There is nothing you can do here, you know that, nothing at all, and I couldn't take it if anything else happened to you, don't you understand that? I need you to be safe, but I need to get these ghouls wasted before they kill anyone else, for God's sake can't you just stay in the car?" He was almost crying now. "I need to know that you're safe, Sam, I can't go through losing you again!"

Sam was staring at him with a kind of wonder. "Dean…"

"Yeah, you happy now, Sammy?" Dean asked bitterly. "Making such a girl out of me."

"Dean, I…I'm sorry…I didn't…" He took a breath. "I'll wait for you here, I really will. I'm sorry…" He had not realised, somehow, the depths of Dean's fear and concern for him: had not realised that he was not the only one terrified of the idea of losing his brother. And suddenly it did matter, again, if he got himself killed, because even if he didn't care, Dean would.

Dean nodded tightly. "Well-great…take care of yourself, all right? I won't be long."

Sam nodded, his head hanging low, defeated. He knew that Dean was right-it just tore him apart to admit it.

…

Sam was sitting motionless at the bole of the tree, frozen in reluctant attendance. He was not exactly sure what time it was, but Dean had been a long time, and he would be willing to bet that it had been longer than three hours. All he had been going to do was sneak up on the creatures and shoot twice: Sam had not even heard any gunshots.

Something was wrong.

Every fibre of Sam's being screamed at him to follow Dean into the woods, to find his brother and bring him safely back, just to know what was happening to him, but he was terrified that any action of his would just get his older brother killed. He _was_ a liability, and if he walked in on Dean's battle and betrayed their presence or something…infuriated he got to his feet and began pacing around the tree, unable to be still for even a moment.

It was then that the wind changed, dragging with it the clogging stench of rotting flesh. Sam stopped dead, realising that it must mark the ghouls' camp, that it must not be far away. The wind carried sound, as well, and Sam found that if he almost stopped breathing he could actually hear their voices.

"Second…this way…" The words were fragmented and indistinct: Sam froze solid, stilling his breathing completely, willing his very blood to be silent as he strained to hear. A harsh cackle-then the voice again.

"Think he'll scream louder than the last one?"

"He'll taste better, at any rate…"

Sam's heart missed a beat. _Dean-they were talking about Dean-had to be_-they must know that he was hunting them, and maybe they had even already captured him…he found himself stumbling forwards, hands held out before him to keep from walking into any trees, following the voices and only praying that he was going in the right direction at all…he had to reach Dean, had to help, _somehow_…

Suddenly he froze as he heard another voice-a voice chillingly familiar, raised in pain. "Hey-hey-_no_-" And a strangled cry-an instant of silence that tore Sam's heart in two-then a stream of frenzied swearing. Sam breathed out. Dean was clearly in trouble, but he was nearby and alive. And judging by his cussing in full possession of his senses. He did not move, hearing the sounds of the two ghouls striding away through the fallen leaves, one of them laughing coarsely, then pressed forwards as quietly as he could, hands brushing against trees and bushes as he found his way by touch and instinct alone. Abruptly his foot caught on a tree root and he slipped, falling hard onto his hands and knees in the icy mud.

"Dean!" he hissed as loudly as he dared. "Dean, can you hear me?"

Silence. The wind wailed through the cracking branches like a lost child crying, and Sam felt himself growing desperate. If only he could see-if he could just see to find his way-this was crazy-Dean was going to die all because he could not see-because he was blind and useless-

"Sammy, that you?"

"Dean!" He surged to his feet and stumbled blindly forwards, reaching-then Dean swore again and Sam realised that he had poked him in the face. He fell to his knees, judging that his brother was bound sitting on the forest floor.

"You took your time, my ass is freezing," Dean grumbled, unreasonably since he _had_ ordered Sam to stay where he was. "Give me your machete, my hands are tied…" Sam reached around him and found the coarseness of the bonds, and began to saw at them himself with the awkward blade of the weapon. Suddenly he felt Dean freeze against him-

"_Sam, run, they're right behind you_!"

Sam felt the hot breath on his neck, heard shuffling footsteps, and in one motion he whirled, machete in hand, wildly estimating the distance of the creature's neck. He heard a howl of anger but realised he had missed-a jolt of pain told him that a knife had been stabbed into his arm but barely noticed, instead springing to his feet, grasping for the contours of neck and shoulders, wrenching an arm around them and sawing viciously through the ghoul's neck, flinging all his weight into the blade, knowing that there would be no third attempt. He heard the ghastly crunch as its head dropped to the ground and sagged back, disoriented-then abruptly realised. _Where was the other one_?

"Sam!"

He lashed out blindly-felt his fist connect with something's face and followed it up with a swipe of the massive blade in his hand. He had misjudged it, though, and felt the weapon knocked from his hand-something kicked him in the stomach, throwing him backwards, but Sam was already reaching for the gun in the back of his jeans-he prayed that he was right, that Dean was still behind him, and fired. The shot went wide, he heard it echo. A rush of breath and the ghoul was on him, grinding his shoulders into the dust-Sam yelled in anger and fired again-there was a short cry and a horrible squelching sound, and he felt hot blood spurt all over his face. The heavy body slumped over him and Sam let his head fall back into the mud, panting from exertion and disgust, struggling not to throw up as the creature's blood soaked into his skin.

"Sam! Sam, you okay?"

Dean…

Somehow he managed to heave the ghoul's body off him and struggle to his hands and knees. "Dean, where…?"

"Here." Sam turned in the direction of his brother's voice and felt the machete nudged back into his hand. He sawed swiftly at the bonds, felt them fall away, and then Dean scrambled forwards, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to lift his face.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I think so," Sam affirmed hoarsely. "Are they…"

"Yeah," Dean replied in a tone of astonishment. "You did it, Sammy. I don't believe it but you killed 'em…" His hands found the stab wound in Sam's arm and probed it-Sam jerked back.

"It's nothing."

"Yeah, maybe…" He stood up, dragging Sam with him, and stood for a moment, apparently surveying the corpses of the ghouls. "Messy," he commented. Sam shuddered.

"Don't. They look and sound too…"

"Yeah," Dean said softly. "Human. But Sam-they're not. You know that, right?"

Sam nodded, wordless, struggling with himself. Dean sighed. "Come on, Samantha. You still managed to waste 'em! You still think you're useless?"

"D'you still think I should've stayed in the car?" Sam returned sardonically. Dean made a non-committal noise. "I'll get these bodies burned."

They walked out of the forest together towards the car, Dean leading Sam, both of them covered in blood-Sam also in some unpleasant-looking brain fluids, his arm bleeding heavily despite the strip of Dean's shirt bound tightly around it-and stinking of smoke and the rotting flesh of the ghouls, but triumphant for once. They were both aware that they had won a battle far more important and far longer-lasting than a mere everyday tussle with a couple of ghouls.

**I think this is the first happy chapter ending all story, if you consider a lot of blood and death happy as in SPN we generally do…and it's not over yet! There's still some story to come! But Sam's finally working out how to deal with his condition and still be a hero-yay! Please leave me a review and let me know what you thought of this chapter!**


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16:

**Two weeks later:**

Sam was sitting at the table of their latest motel room home, his fingers moving slowly across the bumps and dots of a Braille map. Dean paused as he entered, watching with a mingled sadness and pride. It had been him who had taught Sam to read in the first place: as a three-year-old he just had not been able to wait to begin school and start learning. He had been bringing Dean books and demanding that they be read to him, over and over again, ever since he was old enough to understand what a book was, and somehow Dean had found it inordinately difficult to say no, especially when faced with those huge pleading puppy eyes…somehow during those evenings when he had read story after story to his adoring little brother he had just ended up teaching him to read as well…he would always remember the five-year-old Sam leaping into his arms at the end of his very first day of school with a squeal of delight, in front of Dean's entire fifth-grade class:

"Dean! School is _awesome_, I'm coming here _every day_ now and guess what, my teacher says I'm smart 'cause I can already read and I'm the _only one_ in my _whole_ class and she asked if my Mommy taught me and I said no my big brother! Isn't that so cool, Dean? My teacher thinks I'm smart all 'cause of you! You're the best brother in the world!"

And Deans, smiling embarrassedly over his baby brother's unruly head in the direction of the sniggering boys in his class and the girl he had recently decided he had an immense crush on, somehow had not had the heart to push little Sammy away.

Now, watching Sam blinded and maimed forever, once again teaching himself to read, bent this time over Braille, Dean could not help but be reminded of those days. Sam had not changed so much, really, he thought-he just knew more about pain and fear, and suddenly it hurt that he had been so unable to protect his little brother from them. From the dark side of life…

Sam looked up, hearing him come in, and shot him a distracted smile. "How're you getting on?" Dean asked him. Sam shrugged.

"It's hard, but I'm getting there." Neither of them mentioned how terrible it was that this was even happening, or how much it hurt Sam to accept that this was necessary, that he would never see again-there was no use dwelling on that kind of agony. They just had to carry on as best they could. Sam was blind, and they were slowly, very slowly, learning to deal with that.

Dean was about to reply when he heard his phone ringing, the opening notes of ACDC's _Highway to Hell _crackling from his jacket pocket. He slipped the phone out, frowned at the unfamiliar number displayed, and flipped it open.

"Hey, this is Dean-"

"Dean." It was a woman's voice, and Dean automatically changed position to accommodate the knowledge. "Do you remember me?"

Dean felt the misgivings rise. It was not the first time a girl had asked him that question. "Um…"

"My name's Rochelle. Rochelle Carol. We met in Washington, two years ago. Remember?"

Dean was beginning to remember, and despite the luscious silky curls of dark hair and hourglass curves of his memory, it was not one that encouraged him. "Uh-weren't you the one who-"

"The one you mistook for your latest suspect and threatened to burn alive, yes, that was me." Her voice was matter-of-fact and unemotional-Dean began to hope that this was not, after all, a revenge quest.

"That was a misunderstanding," he said. Sam, behind him, still ignorant of what Rochelle had actually said, stifled a laugh. Dean turned to glare at him. "I would never have actually done that. At least-not literally. I could always burn you with-"

"I'm not looking to get laid again, Dean," Rochelle interrupted in a resigned voice. "Though that's not to say I don't remember you fondly. Do you remember why you suspected me?"

Dean did, and he was becoming more and more confused as to what she actually wanted. "Uh-you had a black altar in your house and called yourself a witch? Not just for celebrity purposes?"

"That was it," Rochelle said. "Finally. I know you're a hunter, and we never saw eye-to-eye about my, ah, hobby. But I do move in the same world as you, and I was running a séance last week when I heard mention of your name."

"Well, that's never good," Dean agreed uneasily. "What did those disembodied spirits say about me this time?"

"Mentioned that you were in some kind of trouble. So I did my homework, having as you might say a prior interest, and found that your kid brother's gotten himself blinded. Three months now, isn't it?"

Dean's tone had lost all hint of mirth. "What is it you want, Rochelle?"

"You don't need to be scared, Dean. I know a way to help your brother."

Dean was speechless.

"You still there? There's a ritual you can try, very old hoodoo. It's worked before, I've seen it."

Dean found his voice again. "Oh yeah?" he said warily. "And how many virgins do we need to sacrifice for this ritual?" Sam looked up, startled. Rochelle sighed deeply.

"You're far too prejudiced, you know. I told you, I don't go in for that kind of thing. No sacrifices, no deaths, not even very much blood. Very simple."

"And why should we trust you?" Dean demanded. "Why would you want to help us?"

Her voice turned steely. "Because contrary to popular belief, Winchester, I'm not a bad person, and you and I had something, and I believe in paying my debts. You saved my life in Washington. Now d'you want me to tell you how this is done or not?"

Ten minutes later Dean ended the call, looking dazed and feeling shattered. Sam had long since given up on his work and had been sitting in an agonised silence of waiting him for a while now, and now let loose a stream of questions:

"Who was that? And why were you talking hoodoo and dark magic over the phone with her? Is this another hunt you haven't told me about? What-"

"Hey," Dean mumbled. "Let me think." He ran a hand through his hair, brow furrowed. "That was a girl I used to know," he said eventually. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Thanks, I got that."

"A girl who later turned out to be a witch."

Sam's silence was enough.

"She's okay, though, I think. Anyway-she heard about-you-"

"Being _blind_?" Sam spat the word as if it tasted like poison. Maybe it did.

"Yeah. And she says she knows a way to help."

Sam said nothing, but a light suddenly seemed to kindle in his eyes, a light of new hope and wild desperation-the kind of light that, despite the progress he had made in recovering recently, Dean had not seen in months now.

"It's a spell," Dean went on. "She's given me instructions…"

"Can we trust her?" Sam interrupted. Dean shrugged, then remembered that Sam could not see him.

"As much as any chick I've ever left hanging."

"Well then what are we waiting for?" Sam got to his feet, fists clenched, that new intensity in his sightless eyes brighter than ever. "What do we have to do?"

Dean hesitated. "Sam-there's one problem with this spell."

Sam cocked his head. "What's that?"

Dean breathed out, long and slow. "Well-Rochelle's only seen it used twice. Once it worked, and the guy got his sight back. The other time-the guy died."

Sam seemed to just stop, his body going unnaturally still and quiet, as if in preparation for some immense battle, physical or psychological. "Oh yes?"

"I'm just not sure it's a good idea," Dean said all in a hurry, tripping over his words, hating the way the light in Sam's eyes was already fading. "I mean, there's basically a huge chance that it'll kill you, and you're doing okay now, right? It's not like you _need_ to see-"

"Dean," Sam interrupted, very quietly. "I need to see."

"But not if it kills you!"

Sam lifted his head, flicking a lock of chestnut hair out of his face. "Why not?" he asked simply. Dean exploded.

"You are unbelievable! There is no in hell I'm letting you throw your life away like this, don't you understand what you're _saying_? It could kill you, Sam, _kill you_! I'm just _sick_ of you acting like your life doesn't matter, being so freaking suicidal, it's just selfish, you know that? What d'you think _I'd_ do without you? I'm not letting you do this-don't know why I'm even _telling_ you, I'm not gonna let you so much as _consider_ this!"

But Sam did not back down under the force of his anger. On the contrary, though his face paled, he seemed to strengthen himself inside, as if the conflict had been necessary to make him believe in this. "I need to see," he said softly. "You don't know what it's like, Dean. You don't know what it's like, living in complete darkness. Knowing that-" He paused, frustrated. "Hell, knowing that I'm never gonna see again, never gonna see the sky or you or anything else-" He shook his head. "You can't tell me something like this and then pull it away. I need to try it, Dean. I need to try anything I can."

"_No_. End of story, Sammy. You're not doing this."

Sam looked up at his brother with those desperate, pleading wide hazel eyes that were so identical to those of Dean's memories, of that little innocent Sammy who had always looked up to him, trusted him, loved him unconditionally, and who Dean had always been able to protect. "Dean," he whispered. "Please. I can't live like this forever, I just can't. _Please_."

Dean turned and slammed out. Sam, left alone, took a deep, steadying breath and sank down into a chair. He was going to do it. Somehow, with or without Dean's help, he was going to do it. Already he could feel the wings of hope, of a chance at life again, flickering within him, fearfully frail, but alive. He could feel it. This was not a chance he could survive letting pass by.

He could see again. Somehow his life did not seem too great a price to gamble with for that.

**Aha, so there is hope for Sam! Or not…sorry about the shortness of the chapter, it just needed to end there…more soon, I promise!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Well, thank you guys! The response for the last chapter really took me by surprise and I thought you'd probably be pretty eager to know how this turns out…hope you like this!**

Chapter 17:

_"Why, Sam?"_

_ Her voice cut through his consciousness. He reached out-her hand, sticky with blood and burning his fingers like fire, fitted into his like a key to a lock. He opened his eyes and suddenly he could see her, pressed close to him, her beautiful face distorted by grief and pain._

_ "Why am I still alone, Sam? You told me you would avenge me. Why have you forgotten? Don't you care? Did you never love me?"_

_ "Jess," he whispered. "Jess-I'm so sorry-I'm trying-I love you, I do, I swear I'm trying-"_

_ And she was fading, dissolving in his arms like smoke, and he fought to clasp her, to hold her close, to save her from the encroaching oblivion but in vain. "Jess!" he called hopelessly. "_Jessica_!"_

_ "Don't leave me alone, Sam," her voice drifted back, and _Sam jerked from sleep as if stung_,_ glancing wildly about him for any sign of her-any sign of _anything_. Darkness. Throbbing, empty darkness, the prison of his blindness. He groaned and sank back, trembling.

Jessica…

How was he supposed to do _anything_ about avenging her when he could not even see? Even if he was somehow placed in front of her killer and given the right weapon, he would not even be able to work out where to put the blade. It was ridiculous. Losing his sight had meant losing any hope of making Jessica's death _mean_ something. He needed to avenge her-it was the only way to assuage this crushing guilt, this jolt of pain inside whenever he thought of her. All the time that had passed since losing her had not made the pain any easier to bear-it had instilled it with a new hopelessness and black, drowning despair, because there was nothing he could do, he was useless and crippled and worthless. For months he had wished for his father to find them, to believe that he was forgiven-now he was glad that John had never shown his face. He could not stand before his father like this, show him the ruin of the son he had already despised from the beginning.

And then he remembered Dean's friend's ritual, that could restore his sight and his life.

…

"We're gonna need chalk, of course, black tallow candles, opal-"

Sam interrupted, surprised, cutting off Dean's toneless recital in midflow. "Opal?"

"Supposedly it represents the eyes, and clear-sightedness, in some cultures." Sam nodded, understanding, and Dean went on. "I'm gonna have to draw the symbols for you but I won't be able to enter the circle."

Sam hesitated. "So…you're decided to let me do this?"

Dean shrugged, knowing that Sam would not see it, but unwilling to elaborate and reveal the nightmare that had plagued him the previous night, when he had seen Sam spinning, blindly wielding a silver knife in desperate protection of himself, but unable to see the formless monster as it clawed into him from behind. Unable to relate what it had been like to see his little brother ripped apart before his eyes, dream or no dream.

They had tried to live with this. If it did not work then they would have to change, have to deal with other problems-Sam could not keep on hunting on raw instinct and luck as before, it would get him killed, and he would not let Dean face evil alone. That put them at a stalemate already. And then there was Sam's own despair, his nightmares which only increased in intensity and frequency, the look of hopelessness and agony that flared in his eyes, the way he would double over, clutching his head and shaking with dry sobs when he thought Dean was not in the room. He was _trying_, so hard, and he was being so _strong_, but Dean knew full well that _he_ was the only thing keeping Sam from ending his life, because he was all Sam had to live for now. They could not go on like this.

And he could not bear being the cause of the destruction of that fragile spark of hope he had seen in his little brother's eyes when he had suggested the possibility that he might be healed.

"Need to get your freaky head back in shape, don't I? Need you to watch my back," was all he said, but he knew how perceptive Sam could be, and he had a niggling feeling that the kid might have understood in those flippant words everything he had not wanted to disclose.

They went into action. Chalk and tallow candles they had to hand, in their arsenal. The necessary herbs, too, including St John's wort and vervaine, were not difficult to procure in their circles: all Dean had to do was chat up the sexy hippy behind the counter of the local flower shop. Opal, however, was another matter. Finally they ended up buying an opal necklace from a jewellers-they paid with another false credit card and under false names, but even so the price made Dean wince.

At last they had all the necessary components of the ritual laid out in front of them-they were ready to begin. Sam knelt down, sorting through them by touch, and Dean, watching, felt a kind of surge of frightened anger inside:

"Sam-are you sure you want to do this? You know you could-"

"I know I could die," Sam said softly, looking up at Dean from the floor with those wide, sightless eyes. "I know the risk. I won't die on you, Dean, I promise. I won't die."

"You don't know that," Dean muttered.

"Dean," Sam said in a kind of exasperation. "I need to do this. I _need_ to. Please, Dean, I can't do this without you." When Dean still did not move-"_Please_?"

Dean pulled himself together. "Fine," he clipped out. "But there's something I gotta do first." And he stormed out, pulling his phone from his pocket and angrily dialling their father's number. When the familiar voicemail tone bleeped he closed his eyes. Why could he not just pick up the phone?

"Dad, it's Dean, uh, again. I thought…well, if you got my last message you'll know…Sam, he's, uh, blind. But we found this spell which could maybe help him…" He took a deep breath. "Only thing is, he might not…" He stopped again. "It's dangerous. Just…just thought you should know, Dad." Again he hesitated, then slammed the phone closed. Their father had abandoned them-it was time to deal with this on their own.

…

Dean drew the symbols for the ritual in chalk on the wooden floor with an uneven hand, praying that what he was doing would not doom Sam to something even worse. When he was done a circle was visible, surrounded by runes in some ancient hoodoo language Dean did not know, curling symbols of power and hopefully healing emblazoned around it.

Sam, silent and fervent, lit the black tallow candles by touch and Dean placed them in the appropriate places, sprinkling a pinch of the herbs into each one and making it flare the brighter. "Sam," Dean said softly. "Kneel here." He guided his little brother into the middle of the circle, careful not to step into it himself and risk messing up the rite. Sam went to his knees, fists clenched, blinded eyes burning with hope and anticipation, a low trembling running through his whole body with every shallow breath. Dean gritted his teeth-the black candles flung wild, monstrous shadows around the walls and kneeling in the midst of such a chaos of light and dark his little brother looked so vulnerable it hurt. In this posture his height was not even apparent, making him look much younger than he was. _How could he let Sam do this? How could he let him risk so much_?

"Sam," Dean said. His voice seemed to echo oddly, as if coming from far, far away. Sam looked up at the sound of his voice, face morphed into some unknown demonic mask by the candlelight. Dean thought of a thousand things to say at that moment, a thousand regrets and prayers, memories and hopes, but his throat was blocked by a painful lump and he found that he could not speak. This was his little brother kneeling before him, ready to die, facing the most terrible challenge yet, still strong and still proud, exhilarated by possibility, and yet all Dean could see was the wide, questioning eyes of the little boy he had taught to read, protected all their lives, been everything to and sworn to die for.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice hoarse. Sam nodded firmly.

"I'm ready."

Dean had crushed the opals from the necklace to powder earlier-now he reached out to the central candles and with shaking fingers crumbled the silvery fragments of stone into the flame. There was an instant of silence, and then quite suddenly the fire surged upwards, wild and devouring, and Dean flung himself backwards, horrified-he could no longer even see Sam, or the circle-all was obscured by that rush of fire. Memories crowded in, thick and fast-standing below the ruin of their first home as fire shuddered through the walls, clasping baby Sammy close to his chest, whispering hopelessly with a four-year-old's instinctive love for this new brother that it would be all right. Forcibly dragging Sam out of the Palo Alto apartment while he struggled and screamed for Jessica, pushing through the fire and collapsing, choking on tears and smoke on the pavement outside.

And now seeing Sam lost to the fire again-

"Sam!" he yelled over the roaring of the flames. "Sam, can you hear me?"

There was a kind of sucking, imploding noise, and the fire seemed to burn itself out-the whole room was suddenly filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder and tallow, and a thick dark smoke descended. Dean, choking, struggled to see through it but in vain, and then he heard a sound that chilled him to the bone-Sam's scream, a howl of pain from beyond the smoke. Dean fought to move forwards but the raging heat still lingering drove him physically back-Sam was inside that heat, right at the centre of that miasma, that hell, and Dean could not even reach him-panicking he yelled Sam's name till he was hoarse but heard no reply.

Then, quite suddenly, the smoke vanished. Dean stumbled forwards-the ruins of the ritual still lay scattered about, the candles all but burned out, and Sam still knelt in the centre of it all, slumped forward, head bowed, his shaggy bangs hanging forward to conceal his face. His hands were bleeding where his fingernails had dug into them.

"Sam?"

He raised his head and Dean yelled in shock-Sam's eyes were on fire, flame blazing out of his head as though through the windows of a burning house. And then the candles flared again and Dean saw Sam crumple to the side, just collapse as if struck, to lie curled and motionless in the middle of the circle. He ran shakily forward but as he reached the boundary of the circle found himself hurled backwards across the room by an invisible force, a kind of forcefield maintained by the symbols-the ritual was not yet completed.

For three hours Sam lay there motionless, surrounded by the ring of fire that had once been the circle. Dean could only stand beyond the boundary, powerless, watching helplessly, unable to tear himself away from this terrible mistake, this horror that he had visited on his little brother. He had killed Sam, he knew it well, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do now. He was riveted to that still, crumpled figure in the middle of the fire, beyond his reach and fading before his eyes.

Finally Dean felt the heat in the room beginning to abate, the flames dying slowly. He was not sure when exactly they were gone and the ritual was finished-he could not have marked a specific moment when it ended. He just knew that one moment he was still caught up in the spell and the next all otherworldly forces were gone from the room and it was just him and Sam and a lot of singed chalk lines and a mess of tallow wax. He stumbled forwards, bypassing the chalk lines easily and falling to his knees beside Sam, rolling him over to see his face. Sam slumped over, unconscious or worse, eyes closed, completely motionless and unresponsive. With fumbling fingers Dean reached out to feel for a pulse-Sam's skin was cool and dry, as if he had never been lying in the middle of that inferno.

Nothing. No pulse. Dean somehow could not process what that must mean, though he had spent three hours convinced of it.

"Sammy?" he whispered. "Sammy-c'mon, wake up, c'mon, open your eyes…"

No response. Dean felt his world shatter about him like glass in that instant and doubled over then, in a great racking sob across the lifeless body of his baby brother, whom he had as good as killed. The pain inside him at that moment was like nothing he had ever imagined-he had not known it could be possible to actually feel your heart break, and yet he had come close enough over the past couple of months. He was empty, suddenly-there was nothing left inside him but pure, driving agony.

"…D'n…Dean?" The voice was so soft, so hoarse, so broken that he thought at first he had imagined it, heard only a breath of wind. Still he opened his eyes, and found himself looking down into Sam's, half-open and dazed, but clear, and focused on his face. Dean did not move-he did not understand.

"_Sammy_?"

"Dean-is it-is it…done?" Speaking was clearly an effort; Sam's every breath was laboured and shallow. Dean felt a surge of emotion inside him so intense he could not speak-he just lifted his little brother's weakened, shivering body into the cradle of his arms and hugged him there in the middle of the circle, feeling Sam's live, shuddering heartbeat echoing right through him, proclaiming his life, undeniable and true. Heard his voice, croaking and frail but awed with the miracle-

"Dean-I can _see_."

The first shock over, Dean released Sam, easing him back and propping him against the wall. Sam's head lolled slightly over his shoulder-he was clearly completely exhausted, and fighting to remain conscious. His eyes flashed around the dingy, stinking motel room as if he could not suck in enough of the sight.

"How d'you feel?" Dean demanded anxiously. "Okay?"

Sam's gaze turned back to him and he smiled weakly. "M'okay…really tired…" Dean felt the intensity of his vision, felt him drinking in every feature of his face, a face he had not seen for months, and he did not turn away, letting Sam breathe in this new sensation, this wonder.

"Dean" Sam whispered suddenly. "Can you…can you help me…the window?"

And Dean understood, shooting to his feet to fling the widow open wide and fill the room with the sweet night air, then returning. He pulled Sam's arm about his shoulder and gripped him round the waist with the other hand, heaving him to his feet. Sam wavered and stumbled, his legs like rubber but determined, shaking his untidy hair out of his eyes, gaze fixed on the starry night outside. Dean led him carefully and slowly towards the window, until they reached it and Sam grabbed the window frame in his hand, supporting himself as he stared out into the night sky, drinking in the glory of the stars and the shimmering moon, the velvety contours of clouds lightening the indigo of space in a pattern that could have been painted.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said suddenly, breaking his reverie. "You know Rochelle?"

"Yeah?"

Dean shook his head in awe and admiration. "Huh. Remind me to call that girl back?"

**Well, there it is, Sam is healed! I'm sorry to MysteryMadchen who wanted me to leave him blind but I didn't have an immediate idea for a sequel and I just couldn't leave him that way, I just have a thing about happy endings, couldn't leave him blind…so I'm sorry and I hope you're not too disappointed!**

**It was a complete coincidence that as I was writing this chapter I was playing the song 'Open My Eyes' by the Rasmus-if you don't know it it's definitely worthy looking up...P yes I do have to promote them...**

**There will be one more chapter, a kind of epilogue, which I will try and post tomorrow since it's quite short…please review this chapter and let me know what you thought!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Here's the epilogue (which is why it's so short)! This part takes place in the episode Bloody Mary, right after Mary is destroyed, so a few weeks after the last chapter.**

Chapter 18:

Dean flung the mirror to the side with what felt like the last vestiges of strength in his body, gasping for breath; it smashed with a satisfying crunch of breaking glass. His head was throbbing with a deep, slow headache and though his eyes seemed to be fine he could feel the blood congealing on his cheeks. He sagged back, allowing his body to relax onto the floor for just a few seconds.

Sam, beside him, was unable to do the same.

Through eyes clogged by blood he had seen Mary twist and shrink, dissolving into nothingness-he had blinked as Dean flung the last mirror aside-now all he was aware of was the pain spearing his whole head, so intense that he could not open his eyes and every tiny sound, even just Dean's laboured breathing at his side, slammed deep into his skull like a physical blow. He scrunched up his face, trying to control it-freaking spirits, he fumed. It wasn't _fair_. He had faced her and her powers twice, and now it just hurt too much to think.

Still, at least they'd been able to save that poor girl…Charlie who Mary had targeted because of someone else's crazy blame-targeted like she had targeted him-

Memories swam through his mind. His own face in the mirror, twisted by hate, eyes bleeding. _You killed her_. That demon version of himself, speaking his innermost and worst fears in his own voice-Bloody Mary as himself, forcing all the pain inside him out into the open to be faced.

And she's right, Sam thought. I did…I killed Jessica…

He opened his eyes. Horror blasted through him.

He was staring into a black, empty, pulsing darkness that was as familiar to him as his worst nightmares. Blind. No. No, it was not possible. Even his luck was not that bad. No. No, please no…he blinked, tasting the metallic tang of blood and panic. But still his eyes opened on nothingness. He felt his breathing speed up until he was almost hyperventilating, the pain in his head driven through his very mind like a rusty old nail, grinding against the edges of his thoughts. He was blind. Mary had destroyed his eyes. It had happened again. He remembered the bleeding eyes of his demon face in the mirror-remembered the pain, the agonising weakness and feeling of being torn apart from the inside out that had forced him to his knees. He had not known if his head was imploding or his heart.

Now he knew. She had taken his eyes. The blood running down his face was not just blood-it was the remains, horrifically, of his eyes. Dean had come too late-his eyes had exploded, just like those of all her other victims He was blind again, this time for good. It was over.

Suddenly Dean's hands were on his shoulders, lifting him into a sitting position. Sam struggled almost deliriously, tears now mingling with the hot blood smearing his face. "Easy, easy, Sammy," came Dean's voice from beyond the darkness. "Easy, she's gone, let me look atcha…" His fingers gripped Sam's face, forcing it upwards, and Sam felt a spike of new pain, heartache, rip through him. He gasped, face convulsing. Dean let go of him, startled.

"What's wrong? Sam? Hey-hey, breathe, okay? Take it easy. _Breathe_."

"_Dean_," Sam gasped almost incoherently. "Dean-my eyes-gone-Dean, I'm blind, it's happened again-can't see-she took-my eyes-" He heard a sharp intake of breath, then felt Dean's fingers on his face once again, gentler this time, probing cautiously. Sam struggled to breathe, his whole body shaking violently, unable to believe this horror, this nightmare that had returned-it was too late, it was over, he could not deal with this, never handle something as horrific as this, he was finished and he could feel himself dying right here and now, because he just could not deal with this kind of pain-

"Sam," Dean said softly. "Sam, it's okay. You're okay. There's blood in your eyes is all, you're okay."

Sam shook his head, more tears spilling down his face. "_No_-m'blind-I _know_-"

Dean was laughing now, weakly, with relief. It cut Sam to the core. "No, you're not. It's just the blood. You're gonna be okay, Sam. You hear me? You're okay." He guided Sam's hand to his face and blindly, desperately Sam scrabbled at the congealing mess of blood caking at the edges of his eyes. He scraped away the mess and already there was Dean's face smiling worriedly down at him, the faint moonlight penetrating into the little chamber and glinting off the chaos of broken glass scattered all around. He sucked in a long, shivering breath, scraping away at the blood concealing his other eye too, and suddenly he could see again, he was not blind. _Not blind_.

"Two runs with ole Mary a little much for you, huh?" Dean suggested with wobbly flippancy. Sam laughed harshly, painfully, amazed and completely overwrought.

"I'm sorry…"

"S'okay. You were scared."

Sam dropped his gaze, somewhat embarrassed by his panic. Dean glanced around the room, then laughed. "Hey, Sam. This has gotta be, what, a thousand years' bad luck?" Sam followed his gaze around the graveyard of broken glass and jagged fragments of mirror frames, and he found himself laughing too, instead of crying, a deep and almost racking laugh that shook and hurt his battered body, but it was a pain he would never have done without.

The End

**Well, there it is, finished! I really hope you liked this last chapter and that the story has in no way disappointed. A big thank you to MysteryMadchen for the idea of doing a blind Sam story, which I wasn't sure I'd be able to manage, so I hope I did it justice because it was epic to try it out! And as always my thanks to everyone who stuck with this story and who reviewed it, because I couldn't have done it without that encouragement. Again, thank you all and I hope you enjoyed this story!**


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